


The Vampire and His Huntress

by thealeksdemon



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drabble, F/M, Vampire AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-03 18:06:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 38,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5301479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thealeksdemon/pseuds/thealeksdemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Started as a series of drabbles about Marianne, the vampire huntress, and Bog (or so he says), the vampire she's hunting. Despite the nature of their roles, they have come across a deal: feed him a survivable amount once a month, and he will discontinue his hunt on mortal kind, including Marianne's sister, Dawn. Then she, despite her unwillingness, will cease to hunt his coven. Yet it seems they've encountered quite the predicament—certainly there is nothing more just an arrangement between two hunters? Certainly there is something forbidden about having anything past reluctance between predator and prey (depending on whom you favour). They've made it very clear to themselves of this restriction. Wordlessly, they've drawn a line; a border between what is allowed, and what is not—but who will cross it first?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Small Complication on Her Part

**Author's Note:**

> Short oneshot to accompany a work of fan art I did for Halloween

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I wrote this oneshot before actually planning the rest of the story—this means that there will be inconsistencies between this chapter and the following ones. That's because this was a oneshot to go with a drawing I did, and isn't necessarily related to the following events. HOWEVER, I do like some aspects of this oneshot, so you'll see some similarities. But this oneshot does not actually fall into any point in the current story's timeline—you CAN say though that this was the launching point.

He’s been visiting her once every turn of the moon. Sometimes he’s gracious, and he knocks on her front door. Other times, when his thirst drives him from courtesy, he looms at her window like a salivating hound. 

Of course she lets him in, what choice does she have?

Their deal is as such: harm no one, and he shall have her willing blood whenever he thirsts. This way he does not have to fuss over hunting his prey, and she will not have to fuss over hunting him. At first, the deal is created to protect Dawn from his grasps. He even once confesses that Dawn’s blood is exceptionally spirited, which is very valuable in turning a mortal into a vampire.

“But your sacrifice,” the immortal himself starts with a sly grin, “there is no other such delicacy that can compare to it.”

The vampire—named Bog, or so he says—claims that willing blood is the sweetest kind, but Marianne does not bother to ask him why that is so. Instead, she pulls her collar to the side, and lets him sink his teeth in her throat.

At first, it stings, like a cruel pinch from an overly affectionate aunt. But then the pain fades into a dull throb, which grows into an ache that makes her cheeks flush, and her fingers tremble. As he drinks, it feels like she is being drawn into him, pulled into an intimacy she cannot describe.

But it is not only the drinking that throws her. 

Sometimes Bog holds her fast and fierce, and sometimes he embraces her. No matter how he holds her, his hands are so disturbingly gentle. They roam—almost busying themselves, for they have nowhere else to go—from the base of her neck into her hair, combing through the tangled mess and tugging on the locks. Other times, his hands wrap about her waist, or her hips, or her shoulders, and all Marianne wants to do is lace her fingers through his and fold herself into his lean form.

Sometimes she does. Sometimes, she guides his hands to where he would not dare without her consent. Sometimes, she runs her fingers through his hair, and sometimes she draws circles across his spine. If she’s daring, she embraces him back, or pulls him into a chair where she can sit upon his lap before her knees give out from him drinking his fill of her.

When Bog finishes, licking over the puncture wounds absentmindedly in his drunken stupor, Marianne shivers in his hands like a newborn lamb. There is always that feeling of loss that overwhelms her, but she always steadies in an effort to look unfazed. 

Following soon after is always Bog’s glowing eyes darting up to hers. For a few moments he stares into eyes that are equally fixated on his. Marianne always grows expectant for some reason, as if there is something else she thinks he will do. But then he’ll just lift her gently from his lap and tuck her into bed, or sit her where they have just engaged in their monthly exchange before checking for scarring.

Then just like that, he’ll be gone, through the window, or even through the front door.

And Marianne will find herself, again, waiting for the next turn of the moon.


	2. Frost Bite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just how exactly did their first feeding go? Good? Bad? Worse? Or just okay?

It's biting cold—almost unbearable—and for a second she wishes her blood would just freeze in her veins. She knows that kind of thinking won’t do her any good, but it still ticks her off. Wanting such a thing won't benefit her tonight anyway, and perhaps, not _ever_ from now on. Regardless, that doesn’t stop her from wishing incessantly that her blood would stop blazing and just—

 _—No_. She can power through this. It can’t possibly be _that_ hard.

Of course, there's no one alive to tell Marianne what it is she could be facing.

Shivering, she pulls her fur cloak around her tighter. She grinds her teeth as she watches the manor loom on its lonely hill, scowling at her at this distance. The broken windows are barred and boarded up, the slated roof is missing tiles, and the towers in their vigilance stand wearily. It looks ready to fall apart, daring to topple in the moaning wind. It's a husk of whatever prestige may have been here, she supposes.

 _How fitting for tonight_ , Marianne sneers to herself.

The cold slices through the air, sending ice and sleet to numb her face, the frost nibbling at her nose and lips. Trudging forward, the snow parts at her feet, leaving behind a mar in the pure sheet of white she's sure _he_ will see if he's prowling on that bloody rooftop like she expects. Bitter, she insults him under her breath, daring him to hear.

As she approaches the door, she notices broken chains swinging about the handles. She reaches forward, lifting one hefty link with a gloved finger while studying the rust and corrosion. How long has this place been abandoned, she wonders. When she releases it, the chains clatter dully against the wooden door. Shattered chain links fall to the snow at her feet, silent they're consumed beneath the ice.

Marianne can imagine the vampire wrapping his ungloved fingers around the chains, pondering them silently before tearing them apart with ease. She can imagine his indifference, so used to his own strength that he can't comprehend the awe he could inspire, if he did not already instil fear. 

“It seems,” she sneers quietly, “that he’s not welcome here either.” Yet, as she says the words, the double doors part for her without her needing to lift a finger. They groan with strain and underuse, rusty hinges screeching as they announce her entrance.

Eyes narrowing, Marianne steps inside, aware that she's not alone. Outside the manor the moon lit her way—though particularly useless in the forest—but now she's at the mercy of thick shadows. The storm whistles intrusively through the house, powdering dusty snow upon the tiled entrance hall.

Marianne stops, standing still.

_He’s here._

“For a mortal,” a voice starts, and Marianne tries not to shiver at the weight of the sound, “Your senses are very keen.”

There’s the slam of the doors behind her and a presence at her back, and Marianne instinctively reaches into her cloak and grasps for something that isn’t there. She curses aloud, unabashedly colouring her language as she recalls she brought nothing with her at all.

The beast clicks his tongue, and she can almost imagine him wagging his finger at her. “Ah, you know what we decided on. No weapons, dear Marianne.”

Infuriated, she turns to face him, feeling her breath bound off his chest in his proximity. “Then take out your teeth, and your nails as well.”

“They’d just grow right on back, you know that.”

“Yes,” she narrows her eyes, lifting her gaze to meet the vibrant glowing orbs that peer down at her in a way she hates, “But it’s satisfying to imagine. Admit it—I’m at a disadvantage here, in more ways than one.”

“Admit you’re _disadvantaged?_ I hardly expected you to do it first. I didn’t consider that you'd recognize your mortality, especially with how we met.” He chuckles, almost insultingly, and his glowing eyes blink away. She hears his feet across the floor—he’s making those footsteps to mock her, she knows it—and she follows the sound almost obediently. Soon, she adjusts to the light and sees his slim form gliding across the wide hall with hands behind his back. He's clad in a long coat and impeccably maintained dress shoes, despite the weather outside. As he turns, she sees his waistcoat with silver buttons and silver threading, and the amber pendant hanging about his neck. They glint like smiles in the moonlight, spilling forth from the cracks in the boarded windows.

Marianne drags her gaze to his face, trying not to look away.

He’s Death come back, she can see it. His pale skin looks almost sickly from this light, with hair as dark as obsidian combed back from his face. Creases, like carvings in his flesh, trace from the inner corners of his eyes to around his cheekbones, meeting the beginnings of his pointed ears. His cheeks are hollowed, and his chin is pointed, covered in sparse stubble that looks almost ragged. Chapped lips smirk at her, and she tries not to grimace. 

To be incredibly fair, she doesn't care less about how he looks. His appearance alone doesn't exactly spur any revulsion from her. What exactly should she expect from a demon that's been half-dead for what could be centuries? What unnerves her, despite all of the lifelessness of his exterior, is what he _is._

For a moment, Marianne forgets he's speaking.

“Even if you are mortal,” he continues, “You are quite different than the average Quick I’ve met.” 

“ _Quick?_ ”

“How else should I describe such fleeting things?”

“You act as if you’ve never been one.”

“Yes, but compared to my life now,” he raises a brow, “Mortality is rather short.”

“So is immortality, if you let it.”

The vampire chuckles, hovering by the light bleeding in from the covered windows. “How’s your sister, if you don’t mind me asking?”

She glares. “Recovering.”

“Good.” Then he walks across the floor once more, almost relishing his surroundings. He's rolling out his wrists, fixing the cuffs of his sleeves as he hums something melodic and sweet. From here, Marianne can see the faint cloud of his breath leaving his open mouth, like pale ghosts whispering past his lips. Her own resembles puffs of white smoke, hot and shivery and coiling about the air, showing her the blatant difference between her body, and his.

The vampire continues to talk, but she's no longer listening. 

Marianne shuts her eyes, impatient, “Enough. Let’s get this over with. I’ve had it with waiting for you.”

Suddenly, as if swept up by wind, she's lifted off her feet and pressed against the doors behind her, feet scrambling at the wood in slight panic. The impact is soft instead of harsh, but she still gasps in surprise, hands lashing out and gripping the vampire for reluctant support. She quivers at the vampire’s hand, cold against her collarbone. It rivals the chill that seeps in from the wood against her spine; she's not sure which is more biting. Without a spot of hesitation, she glares into his flashing eyes as he growls at her. His voice is low and grating in his throat, which sounds evidently dry as he speaks to her through clenched teeth.

“You have no idea how long I’ve _hungered_ since we’ve made that deal of yours—and yet I stand here before you making conversation instead of taking what I’m owed. If I could rip your throat out right now, I would, but we have a contract I’d like to abide,” The vampire snarls at her. “I’ve waited days,  _parched_ , sweet Marianne. But I’ve taken the time to ease you into—“

“ _—Ease?_ ” Marianne raises a daring brow, ignoring her dangling feet. “I see no way a person can be eased into having a monster feed on them every month. And should I _care_ if you thirst? So does every creature on this earth.” 

His golden eyes flash at her. “You did this for your sister. Do you take back your promise?”

“No. Never.”

“Then let me _ease_ you into the deal you’ve made. Not often do people willingly give up their blood—in fact, it's incredibly rare, incredibly foolish. But an offer like this is foolish to decline, especially with blood like yours. Contracts like these don’t happen in anyone’s lifetime, but they're sacred and holding. And let me remind you: this is not my _hunt_. I will not _compel_ you; I will not _trick_ you. This is your _sacrifice_ —so let me respect it.”

Marianne feels him loosen his grip, and her feet gently land on the floor. He heaves a sigh, absentmindedly straightening out the creases he made in her clothes as he relaxes.

“I take less than a tenth of it,” he says, rubbing his brow when he realizes she's finally listening. “A tenth of your blood. Survivable for you, and enough for me to endure until our next meeting, understand?”

Marianne clenches her jaw, remembering their terms vaguely, “Yes.”

“And it will hurt, though it differs for every person. For some, it is a pinch; for others, like a burn. But, there are some who say it is as if I am ripping their flesh from their body with my jaw. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like me to do it now, or would you like to extend this meeting?”

She raises a brow. “I wouldn’t like it, but I would prefer you do it now, rather than have to stay with you longer than either of us want.” 

“You’re infuriating.” 

“You’re repulsive.”

He waves a hand. “May I?”

“Fine,” and Marianne slides her cloak from her shoulders, feeling it fall about her feet in a heap. Unbuttoning her coat, she pulls it to one side, revealing her throat to the vampire she doesn’t yet have a name for. He scrutinizes her open skin, and she shivers—like the prey she doesn’t want to be.

“Wait!” She inhales, pulling her coat back over her neck.

The vampire looks up to her, restraining himself like she's just hidden his dinner. “Yes?”

“You will leave Dawn alone? As you promised?”

He watches her for a moment. Perhaps he sees something in her face, because then he nods, “And I will not touch your foul village either. I will not hunt your folk for as long as you give yourself to me.” 

Marianne chews on her lower lip, finds herself whispering firmly, “Promise me. Again.”

Sensing something in her tone, he looks into her eyes and says, “You have my word.” Before Marianne has enough time to release the breath she’s holding, the vampire says, “And will you promise to leave my coven alone? You will not hunt them?”

Then she freezes, suddenly uncertain. Thoughts churn inside her head, making her ponder for bated moments. How can she expect him to sacrifice his way of living, without her sacrificing her way of life? They're both protecting something here; they're both drawing a line between their kinds—she'll cease hunting his demons, and he will cease hunting her people, for a fair price. A vampire needs to feed, and if he cannot feed on the quarry he's surrounded by, then from where will he find sustenance? From whom will he find food?

He will find it from the huntress who denies him his prey. Just the same, in removing Marianne’s "village"—as he calls it, despite the fact it's quite a prosperous neighbouring town—from his menu, Marianne has to remove his minions from her list.

Such is the deal they struck.

It's a wonder why they could not just agree to turn their backs on each other, never to hunt their natural enemies for life. But they share the same territory—it would be foolish to presume there would be no bloodshed in their inability to share it.

Marianne decided, a long time ago, that the only blood to spill would be hers, or her enemy’s. Never Dawn’s. Never Sunny’s. Never her father’s. No one’s blood will spill except her own—that is the vow she made.

“Yes,” Marianne finally allows. “I promise.” 

Satisfied, she slowly lowers her coat from her neck once more, exposing herself. _This is my sacrifice_ , she thinks as she turns away, watching him lean in to feast. 

There is no warning, no final sentiment. There is only the sharpest of pains as teeth dig in, tearing into her flesh like thick needles. Marianne finds herself open-mouthed, holding back a surprised shout as alien sensations wash over her. She blinks, bewildered at the feeling of having blood pulled from her body, spilled into the mouth of a mythical beast. The initial pain is sharp, but the growing discomfort is jarring. For a second, the pain numbs away—but then the vampire pauses and sinks his teeth deeper into her, as if not satisfied with just a sip.

Marianne raises her fist to her mouth and bites down hard. A metallic taste fills her mouth as she clenches her eyes shut. Daring to peek, she sees one of the vampire’s hands pressed against the wall beside her, caging her in while the other hand holds her in place at the waist. 

Trapped. She’s trapped.

And the pain is getting worse. 

He’s thirsty. _Starving_ —she can tell by how quickly he draws from her, faster than the pace her heart allows. The feeling of someone drinking their fill of her with their teeth embedded in her throat—God, _stop_. Stop. Stop—

“— _Stop!_ ” Marianne croaks, releasing her fist from her teeth and slamming it into the vampire’s shoulder. She does so again and again, other hand clawing into his clothes as she tries to physically pull him from her throat. She’s shaking her head, hair wet with snow and dripping on their clothes as she protests, pushing against the taller man with all her might. She even kicks him. The vampire, suddenly surprised by her outbursts, staggers and releases her.

Marianne feels wetness on her face but she refuses to believe it's tears. Her neck throbs and the pain is so _bizarre_ that she can’t help but swear under her breath. 

“Saying how much it’ll hurt, but actually _experiencing_ it . . . Two different things, vampire.” She hisses, pressing her palm into her throat to stop any bleeding. Warmth fills her hand as tries to ignore the pulsing pain. Only then does she realize she's shaking like a leaf, the cold seeping into her and sending her knees knocking against each other.

There's a sudden weight on her shoulders, and startled, Marianne strains to open her eyes. Her heavy cloak is once again wrapped around her, although haphazardly placed and loose. Alarmed, she looks up at the vampire whose hands are about her arms, adjusting the cloak to ease her shivering.

And her breath catches at the sight before her.

Instead of glowing, golden rings in canvases of black, two bright blue eyes stare down at her. They look almost human, and it takes her a minute to realize that this is still the same vampire that drank from her just now. His brows are cinched tightly in the middle of his forehead, and his colouring cheeks seem a little more filled in as he considers her. But it is he, the vampire, who currently licks her blood from his lips.

When he raises a hand to her neck, Marianne flinches from him.

He blinks at her reaction, but shakes himself. “Allow me,” he whispers, placing his hand on top of the one she's using to put pressure on her wound. His fingers fall to the back of her knuckles, far from forceful or cruel.

There's something about his voice that makes Marianne freeze, something so oddly warm about the way he says those words that she finds herself shaken. Looking up at him, searching his face, she allows him to pull her hand from her wound. She watches, baffled, as he leans down to the bite he left behind, this time with no thirst or hunger in his expression. His mouth opens—for a moment, Marianne tenses, and noticing her anxiety, the vampire stills. When she shivers loose once more, hand squeezing his thumb tightly, she feels his lips descend on her neck again. Then something wet laps at her throat, and she flushes scarlet.

 _Did he just_ lick _me?_

Then he does it again, and she wonders for a second if he’s relishing the taste. The third time feels like a light flick, and she raises her brows, ignoring the tingling sensation in her skin before she finally pushes the vampire away, touching where he had bitten. Her hand comes away with blood, sure, but she feels no puncture wounds. In fact, there’s only the dull leftover throb of pain, receding into a soft, painless pulse. She stares up at the vampire who now steps away from her, eyebrows furrowed as he glares at the floor and wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

“My apologies,” he begins, the words almost failing to leave his mouth altogether. “I did not anticipate the pain you'd be in.” 

Marianne feels as if she's imagining his words, but suddenly a crooked, disbelieving smile worms its way into her face. Maybe it’s the rush and relief of feeling no more pain that's making her like this, or perhaps she’s still hazy with blood loss. She laughs a little as she says, “Are you . . . Apologizing?”

Startled, he frowns, looking away. With her blood in his body, his cheeks pink a little in frustration. The thought itself is odd—her blood is in him at this very moment, swishing about his monstrous stomach—but her dizziness is passing and she can’t help it; she laughs.

Maybe for a few moments she’ll forgive herself for any attitude that _isn’t_ hostile.

Teasingly, she pokes him. “I thought you were just going to leave me in pain. I assumed you’d just abandon me here to recover on my own. I didn’t expect you to _lick_ me.”

Then the vampire stammers, appalled by her mentioning it. His befuddled expression sends another laugh bubbling from her gut which she doesn’t bother hiding. The vampire, mayhaps embarrassed, clears his throat again. 

“Leave you here? I could not.” He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t leave you in a state I put you in—that would be unmannerly of me.” Then he looks away, jaw working slightly before he turns to her again, eyebrows furrowed so tightly he looks almost like he’s in pain. Marianne tries not to laugh at the odd sight—he seems as close to flustered as a vampire can get. “And I licked you to _heal_ you, alright? Vampires do it most often to cover their tracks, especially if they do not wish to be found. You know that.”

“Oh, I do, vampire. How could I not?” Marianne tilts her head again, watching him curiously, though no longer apprehensively. The deed is done, but he seems like a man of his word. At the moment, he's far from threatening. “I _assumed_ that it was to heal me, considering the circumstances,” she gestures to her unmarred throat, shrugging as if it’s already so obvious. “I wouldn’t have thought you had any other reason for licking me like that, unless we were lovers.” She laughs a little, then stills.

The vampire stifles a nervous cough, and Marianne’s eyes widen slightly as she bites her lip.

Silence fills the space between them for a moment as they watch each other, unsure how to feel about her last sentence and what she implied about his method. Marianne feels her face heating up, realizing that the sentence itself happens to be dreadfully awkward, especially between enemies. Determined to brush it from her mind, she clears her throat. Taking it upon herself to ignore her bloodstained clothes, the spot of red on the vampire’s chin, and his painfully striking blue eyes, she asks, “What’s your name? Or at least, what can I call you?”

He blinks at her, surprised at the question. “I assumed you’d call me ‘vampire’ for the rest of our encounters.”

“So did I—but you already call me Marianne. You know my name, why should I not know yours?”

“A vampire’s name is sacred,” he tilts his head, studying her, a small smile forming on his face.

She rolls her eyes. “Aren’t all names? Simply because you’re immortal doesn’t make your name more important than mine. Names are one of the only things in this world that belong solely to us alone, don’t you agree?”

A light chuckle falls from his mouth as he throws his head back, and Marianne watches locks of hair fall out of place, framing his sharp cheekbones. When he looks at her again his bright eyes sparkle at her, amusement exuding from every inch of him. She can’t help but smirk back, finding his delight almost contagious—a sickness she didn’t think she’d catch.

“Quite so, Marianne,” he crows. Then he sticks out a hand, long, bony fingers hanging patiently in the air. When she takes it without a spot of hesitation and gives him a firm shake, he says, “You may call me Bog.”

She allows a crooked grin, curious. “ _Bog?_ ”

He nods, smiling down at her. “It's quite a long story. I doubt you have eternity to hear it.”

“May I hear some? I’m sure I at least have time for a prologue.”

Bog ponders for a moment, studying her. Then he smirks, “I shall tell you a bit if you will allow me to escort you home. I find that this meeting place is far too inconvenient for you.”

Marianne rolls her eyes. “You think? I thought my blood was going to freeze—and we can’t have that now, can we?”

“Well,” he offers his arm, and she takes it, although a little hesitant, “That may be true, but you have a sister to come home to, do you not? And you’re not carrying any weapons—I’d rather you not lose your life to a bandit because our deal rendered you unarmed.”

She looks up and watches his sharp blue eyes. A little reluctantly, she allows herself to compare them to the Ulysses butterfly—her past lover used to poach them, to her slight disgust—which possessed wings of such bright, stunning blues. So vibrant they were that she felt they could glow and light the night sky, if given the opportunity.

Marianne relaxes her hands and wraps her fingers around Bog’s arm. Her smile she tries to hide, but she knows she's not putting much effort.

“Fair enough.”


	3. Metamorphosis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marianne wasn't always a hunter. Who was she then, before she hunted monsters? And what caused the change?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! I take forever, I know. On my last year of highschool and gotta focus as much as I can. Warning! Roland is in this chapter—but you know what, so is Plum! But no Bog :( Psst, next chapter though

 

Above all, Marianne prefers the outside to the indoors. She doesn't enjoy the huff and puff parties her sister, Dawn, likes to drag her to, although she  _used_ to find amusement in the haze of perfume and bitter drinks. But times change, and all of those would only remind her of a life she's left behind. Once walking through streets lit by the setting sun—connected at the hip with other delicate women—Marianne now desires to walk alone with the comfort of her father’s pistol tucked neatly into her inner pocket with only shadows as her company. This way, no one can bother her.

How exactly does this happen to a noble girl of Fayford?

Thinking back, Marianne assumes it began when her Godmother, Bonny Plum, babbled about the new rumour in town. Marianne knows about them—she doesn’t live under a rock—but the new information Bonny offers is interesting.

“Pretty girls are being abducted, loves—murdered in the night after disappearing from their homes,” Plum reveals over her cup of tea, as if disclosing her dearest secret. “I hear they just turn up three days later pale as the moon, with not a drop of blood left in them. Can you believe such a horrid thing?”

Dawn, hearing this from the other side of the parlor, straightens in her chair. Her eyes sparkle with curiousity, childlike wonder dangerously kicking in, even though a week before this kind of news would’ve stricken her with disgust. Marianne on the other hand is unimpressed by the tale.

“What of it, Auntie Plum?” She asks, trying to ignore the little bud of crimson blooming on her fingertips from her less-than-perfect attempt at embroidery. She feels like throwing the needle and thread to the side, but she knows that Roland wouldn't wish such a ‘rash disposal of her feminine.’

“The incidents used to be contained on the Eastern side of Bleakley, but my friend tells me that the incidents are moving further West—to here in Fayford.” Plum continues, setting her tea cup back in its saucer, turning it in its place.

Marianne rolls her eyes, “But these are only rumours, aren’t they? They’re just tales to frighten women to stay in at night—as if it would stop some of us.” At this, she pointedly smirks at her sister, who giggles guiltlessly under her breath.

Then Dawn clears her throat, jumping from her seat, “you’re not asking the _real_ questions, Marianne.” She turns then, facing Bonny Plum with that lethal twinkle in her blue eyes. “How is it possible that their blood is drained? Where does it go? What is it being _used_ for?”

“Always curious, sweet Dawn,” Plum chuckles, leaning forward towards the girl. Her voice takes on that trembling, storytelling quality that still impresses, sending a shiver through Marianne’s body, as if she's rattled by a cool wind. “They say that it’s a beast, love. A vile one that lures women out of the comforts of their beds, and drinks their blood right from their necks.” At that last word, she straightens and places two fingers on the base of her throat. Then she presses down with her nails, indenting her flesh, effectively emphasizing her point. The sight of it sends a chill down Marianne’s spine. “They say it's a _bite_ that does it, but no one really knows for sure if it is, or even if it's from—the actual name of the beast slips my mind—a monster. There are hardly _any_ wounds left behind, so no one can claim this for certain. Yet, there is word that _sometimes_ there are two small puncture wounds, but that’s not quite confirmed either. It could very much be a dark creature, Dawn, but it’s all hush-hush here in Fayford. You’ll hear it from no one other than me that it could be a demon—a devil walking amongst us.”

Marianne shifts, fingers fiddling with the needlework in her hands. There is an odd twisting in her gut she cannot place, but she pretends it's nothing akin to curiousity. She recognizes it to be fear. In an effort to dismiss the discomfort, she says aloud, “I’ve read about such creatures in father’s books. Those that draw the blood right from the neck? They’re called vampires—they’re purely _mythical_ of course.”

“That’s the word!” Bonny Plum raises a triumphant finger.

“Vampires?” Dawn’s breath catches, back straightening as her eyes flash. “How crude.”

Marianne laughs, shaking her head at the bizarre curiousity on her sister’s face. “But vampires don’t exist, like I said. And I hardly think any of us should believe in such a thing—I still insist this is another man’s tactic to keep the women in the household, and outside of Bleakley. They don’t want us finding out just how much they gamble away down there in their pubs.”

Plum purses her lips at the unnecessary mention of the men’s bad habits, but still smiles knowingly at her goddaughter. “I suppose it _could_ just be a cautionary tale. I have seen nothing of the events in the papers up here in Fayford, but I still suggest you girls stop going out so late at night. Who knows? It could very well be true—the vampire story. Stories don’t sprout simply from nothing; there is always a seed that must be planted first, and even better, a witness to nurture it.”

“You can try to keep us at home all you want, Godmother,” Dawn shrugs, smile beaming. “But _I’m_ meeting up with Edward tonight. If I don’t come back, I expect it’s because some _vampire_ is bathing in my blood.”

“They _drink_ it, Dawn,” Marianne corrects, whipping a throw pillow at her sister. It makes impact with a clap, and Dawn laughs as she dodges another one. “And don’t joke about that—if father heard you talking about your own morbid end, he’d have a fit. Even I'm on my way to having one myself—you _better_ get home safe tonight or so help me _God_ you won’t be able to leave this house again. I’ll even tie your ankles together, and have Roland lock all your lovers behind Bleakley’s gates, just to make sure you don’t go attracting danger.”

“I’d like to see you try that, Marianne.” Dawn giggles, adjusting her skirts as she glides to the doors of the parlor. “Should I take that as a threat?”

The older sister snickers, “a promise, dear sister.”

And just like that, Dawn leaves to get ready to meet her beau for the week. Godmother Plum, yawning to herself, excuses herself from the parlor, leaving Marianne alone. She fiddles with the crooked stitchings in her embroidery, teeth worrying at her bottom lip.

It isn’t like she’s all that frightened. She’s heard the rumours, and the hushed stories, and she’s dismissed them countless times. Bleakley _is_ a less welcoming district, to be fairly true. It's danker, and riddled with those who cannot afford to keep space in Fayford. Although it isn’t exactly _poor,_ the standards of living there just aren’t exactly on par with Marianne’s neighbourhood. Even in the standards of Fayford, Marianne’s family supercedes that of their neighbours—of course, since her father _is_ the Mayor.

And because her father is the mayor, no one really questions the choices of his daughters, although they did at first. As time went on and the girls did nothing to fix their reputation in the eyes of the public, the scandalous uproars died down to shrugs. Both Marianne and Dawn chopped their hair short, up to their chins, as a way of rebelling against the rules placed on the women in society. They wore trousers sometimes, and placed well in school, even above their male counterparts.  They took lovers, even though this would supposedly sully their reputation, or dash their opportunities at marriage. So far, nothing of the sort has happened. Regardless, Marianne, as the eldest and heir to her father’s wealth, she of course hasn't exactly had a lack of suitors.

Roland, upon entering her life with an embellished entrance, became Marianne’s first real love. Handsome as the sun, with flaxen hair and a striking smile, he swaggered into her heart and got comfortable.

Upon his proposal, Marianne was already head over heels for him and his charming confidence. The weeks soon following their engagement, Marianne found herself sitting more at home sewing her fingers into handkerchiefs, rather than outside pursuing her studies. At first, she didn’t really mind it—it _was_ what Roland wanted, so of course she complied. But idleness never suited her, and as her mind wandered, so did her conviction to never bother her future husband.

So she came to him the next day to ask, “What is it like down in Bleakley?”

Roland, upon hearing the bizarre question, pauses at the door of the Avery-Warren Manor, hat in his hands and snow dusting his hair. A halo seems to glow from him, like a crown, and Marianne tries not to be mystified too long. Her fiancé is beginning to frown.

“ _Bleakley?_ ” He repeats, quite incredulously, as he gives his coat to the manor’s young footman, Dayton—or Sunny, to anyone that matters. Roland barely spares him a glance as he scrutinizes Marianne, but she smiles apologetically at Dawn’s best friend anyway as he carries the heavy coat away with a crooked, plotting grin and a glance to the fine fabric.

Marianne turns back to her husband-to-be and nods, trying to be merely casual about the topic in an effort to hide her growing curiousity. “Yes, Bleakley, our eastern neighbour. What is the place like?”

Roland runs his fingers through his hair and steps up to her, frown deepening on his face. Then he smiles, raising a hand to push her hair behind her ear. “Why do you ask, love?”

Her face is hot and she knows she's blushing, but she steadies herself and makes an effort not to drop the topic. “I’m just curious about it, Roland. It’s been there all my life and I’ve never been past its gates, no less even near it. I wonder about it sometimes, and who better to tell me about it than my fiancé?”

The sound of the last word in Roland’s ears makes him smirk a little. Somehow pleased, he offers her his arm and escorts her through her home.

“Well,” he begins, chest puffed out, “it’s certainly nothing like Fayford.”

Marianne rolls her eyes and laughs, hand placed lightly on his elbow as he leads her to a large window facing east. In the distance, hidden in falling snow, is the outline of the neighbouring district of Bleakley. It's a gloom of grey and bog, and it makes her chill just looking at it. Still, it does nothing to douse her curiousity.

“I know that, darling, but what is it like?” She asks, almost impatiently. “What are the _people_ like? How about the markets, or even the port? I know you do business there, and you’ve been to the port on your trips overseas, but you never tell me of your journey from Fayford to the boat, only everything after.”

Roland looks at her somewhat bewildered, then laughs. “When were you so nosy? I don’t believe _this_ is the girl I proposed to.” Hearing his flippant tone, Marianne blinks, stunned at his words. When she looks up at him, she sees that he's not even fazed by his own speech, even though she feels a pinch in her own chest. He continues, as if not having said anything of the sort, and Marianne tries to do the same. “My dear, nothing in Bleakley would interest you. It is quite like its namesake, you know. It’s very… well, it’s _bleak!_ ” He waves his dismissing hand at the distant silhouette, grimacing a bit too strongly.

Marianne recovers slightly, but feels a little shaken. Unsure if she should be hurt—because surely he did not mean what he said in _that_ way—she says sharply, “But if it’s so _bleak_ and _boring_ , why do you go there nearly every night when you tell me you’re going home? And you always go off more excited than when you’re with me. And you live on _Briar Lane_ , not in—”

She suddenly stops, mouth silently hanging open when she sees Roland narrowing his eyes at her. It only lasts a second, because in the next he's smiling graciously as he's suddenly confused, and _amused,_ at her words. For a moment, she wonders if she imagined seeing it, if it even happened at all.

“My darling,” he leans forward, voice all honey and sweet and tickling her heartstrings. “I have always been honest with you, you know that.” He takes her hands in his and kisses her knuckles. Heat runs up her arms, and her heart flutters at the feel of his soft lips. She tries to keep her composure, but knows she's melting. Roland continues, smirking at her reaction to him, “I don’t know where you’ve heard about me going to Bleakley without me having business to, but I assure you these are false rumours. Trust in me, my love. Have faith in my words. Know that as I speak to you here and now, it is as a man devoted to you, heart and soul. This ring on your finger is proof of that, is it not?”

Then he moves, standing between her and the window, concealing the sight of the haunting district. He's glowing from the snowy sky at his back, and Marianne finds her gaze pulled from Bleakley and falling on his handsome face, which is ringed in an almost heavenly light. He leans forward and presses his lips to her forehead, and begins to whisper softly into her hair, and she shivers at his touch, crumbling in his hands.

“My Marianne, I have never gone to Bleakley when I have told you otherwise. Never would I contradict my words to you, for you are my dearest. You are my _heart_ —how on Earth would I lie to you?”

Marianne’s heart flutters, and she nods. Yet, as she stares at his chest, she feels an itch under her skin that begins to burn.

She looks up at him, unsure what the sick twist in her gut is. “Promise me, then? That you won’t go to Bleakley without telling me? I hope I’m not asking for too much. I worry about you, you know.”

Roland lifts her chin and looks down at her wide brown eyes. “Oh, is this about the rumours? About the beast of Bleakley, drinking up the women? My dear, I don’t exactly fit the profile of what this monster is looking for, no matter how beautiful I am.”

And just like that, Marianne's laughing. She leans to kiss him, and he does, too. It's brief, but for her it's the seal to a promise he didn’t make.

When she falls back onto her heels, she feels satisfied with the conversation. Only a few hours later, when she realizes Roland didn’t exactly promise her anything, she asks him where he's going before he leaves her family’s manor.

He smiles, putting his hat back on his head. “Home, sweetheart. Where else?” Then he gives her a peck on her cheek, and enters the flurry of snow outside her door. The large oak door closes shut behind him, and the cold around her is gone.

When Marianne turns around, she bolts upstairs and into her room, practically tearing at the laces in her dress, and ripping it off her body. In a few minutes she is jumping into two pairs of trousers, a cotton shirt from Sunny, and a large wool coat. She is stumbling as she laces up her boots, tucking her hair into a cloth cap, and wrapping a warm scarf about her neck, unsure which to finish first. Then quickly, as she feels time ticking away, she locks her door and races back to her window, undoing the latches and lifting it—albeit with a lot of effort—before crawling over the sill and onto the roof below.

It's covered in a fresh layer of snow, and she nearly slips a couple times before coming to the ledge of the roof. Just like Sunny promised there’d be, there is a stack of crates in the form of a stair directly below her. Marianne requested it earlier, when she was formulating her plan to follow Roland, and Sunny—a little bit _too_ excited at the prospect of tailing the man—said he would leave the empty crates from the delivery of wine for Dawn’s upcoming dinner party as a way for Marianne to leave, and perhaps get back to her room. Sunny—for his smile, as Dawn says—arranged them carefully, and from what Marianne can see, it seems rather sturdy.

Slowly Marianne lowers herself from the roof, cursing herself for forgetting gloves as she grips the edge with reddening fingers. When her feet finds their balance, she lets go and hops down the rest of the way. She is racing through the snow, looking for Roland’s footprints in front of her house as she watches the silhouettes in the windows of her home begin the routine to end the day. When she finds Roland’s lone trail disturbing the whitened road, she follows it until she can see from a distance those signature waves of gold under an absurdly expensive hat.

Slowing her pace, she shoves her hands into the pockets of her wool coat, and ignores the chilling burn in her knees. Her heart is racing, but she cannot understand entirely why. There is the sick feeling of apprehension and dread in her gut, and it's almost as unbearable as the cold. Is the feeling there because it's possible that Roland could be lying to her? Or even worse, that she failed to trust him even though his ring sits right there on her finger, the very proof of his truth? If he catches her following him like this, this distrusting fiancee, then what would he think?

He’d be disappointed, wouldn’t he?

Marianne shivers, biting her lip. She can't turn back now.

The reason why Marianne doubts Roland in the first place is because Dawn came home one night a few weeks ago and asked Marianne if she knew that Roland was in Bleakley. Dawn had spotted him on her way home from a lackluster date, his signature gait striding through the metal gates of the gloomy district. The news came surprisingly, and all Marianne could do was laugh. How absurd! Preposterous! Why in any world would her future husband tell her that he was going home, and show up at Bleakley? Roland wouldn’t lie to her.

“You’re probably mistaken. And if it _was_ him, he was probably there for emergency business,” she said, shrugging it off. Recovering from the initial surprise, Marianne then took the next few minutes to lecture Dawn about being so close to Bleakley in the first place.

A few days later, Sunny comes back covered in layers of snow, telling Marianne that he saw Roland coming out of Bleakley.

“When?” Marianne had asked, brows furrowing.

Sunny leans against the doorframe, arms crossing as he thinks to himself. “Now that’s the weird thing. I saw him just earlier while I was on a bread run for the kitchens.” Although Sunny is technically a footman, he does odd jobs now and then when he's needed elsewhere, and on that day he happened to be free to do a last minute run to the baker’s. However, bread runs only ever happen a little bit after _sunrise_.

The thought made Marianne still.

_What is Roland doing in Bleakley? And so late at night that he comes home in the morn?_

Now Marianne can’t deny that there's something odd going on—more witnesses come to her every few days, telling her of similar things. Of course, _this_ is what she’s really worrying about; not some monster drinking his blood in some forgotten alleyway in a city not her own, but her fiance’s dishonesty. These growing secrets of his are worrying at her, tearing her apart and making her reckless. Even so, she doesn't dare to think of the possible reasons as to why he’s going to Bleakley in the first place.

Maybe he’s making plans for a wedding present, and the store he’s looking for is only in Bleakley. Although, that wouldn’t make any sense—what does Bleakley have, that Fayford does not? If there is any store in Bleakley to find, there are surely greater ones in the west, and who alive can deny that?

Marianne bites at her lip and lifts her scarf to wrap around her face, watching as her breath frosts on the dark wool. They’ve taken a few turns, but now they're finally approaching Briar Lane. This is it; the truth.

She stops, staring at Roland’s swaggering figure. He walks with such confidence and such sureness—one of the first things she ever noticed about him. If he walks with his head down even, you can tell he doesn’t need to look at his feet for him to know the earth is ready for him to walk across it; like he _owns_ it. He moves like he’s dancing, with a refined grace unmatched by any man before him. The way he walks is simply mystifying.

Her breath catches in her lungs as she waits, frozen to the spot. _Turn_ , she wills, biting down on her lip harder than she means to. _Turn into Briar Lane. Please, my love_.

She sees him turn his head slightly, and knows he is glancing down the street to his house. For a moment, she almost releases a sigh of relief.

But he doesn't turn. Roland keeps walking East, right past Briar Lane.

Marianne can hear her heart begin to break, but instead she swallows, gathering the pieces, and begins walking again. All she feels now is numb, and it's incredibly stifling, but it doesn't stop her. Her legs are shaking, for more reasons than the cold, but she ignores it all. She knows that if there's anyone to see her, they’d say she's a sickly shade of green, and must go home immediately to rest—but there is no time for that.

She has one truth. Now, it's time for the other.

Following diligently, she realizes that Roland never once looks behind him. He is _so_ sure that there is no one tailing him; that there is no reason to worry—his secret is perfectly safe. He simply continues to saunter on, unaware of the woman following close behind.

Marianne realizes something about him: he acts as if nothing can touch him.

Not even guilt.

Suddenly, there is a spark in her chest. It is catching. It is searing and cruel, but it's as real as the nightmare she's living. This new heat raging within her isn’t love, and she knows it. Her fists grow tight in her pockets, but she trudges on, ignoring her buzzing cheeks and her chattering teeth.

Soon the rich houses become modest. Three stories become two, and then become one. Unnecessary embellishments are stripped away and simpler abodes sprout here and there. The roads become rougher, and then become uneven cobblestone. They narrow as well, little by little, the further they go. Marianne knows she is nearing Bleakley when the houses become less than simple—haggard and battered, but standing sure. This is the lesser part of Fayford that she’s only ever passed, and never stopped to see.

Then finally she spots it: the gates of Bleakley. Only ever seeing it from afar, Marianne almost hesitates, almost turns around and runs back to safety, and to the warmth of her home. For a second she does hesitate, and nearly trips. Placing a hand on her chest, she treads quietly behind her fiance, moving into the shadows of the sleepy buildings around her. It's almost like they are alone in the world, on a stage set for them and for the world to watch from outside.

The gates are frightening, flanked by two vast walls of brick and mortar that stretch endlessly in either direction. They loom like gnarled iron, the bars twisting upwards like spires, ending in sharp points that look as if to impale the sky. Covered in vines even in the midst of winter, it looks wild and unwelcoming. Chains dangle on it, broken and useless, swinging, and rattling like her own teeth. Under the light of the moon she can see the orange hues of rust, and as the wind blows about it, the gate seems to groan. It seems like it will burst, freeing the darkness behind it to bleed into Fayford. Marianne shivers.

There is a small little house beside it—perhaps for the warden of the gate. It is brightly lit with a lantern hanging outside, the flame about to die out. Roland lifts a hand and knocks softly, and the head of a man peeks out. Marianne leans closer from her crouched position in the shadow of a tiny shack, straining to hear their hushed words.

“Night visit again, sir?” The person drawls, voice damp with alcohol. He sways, unsteady, their combined shadows shimmering against the wall of brick beside him like a demon. The word ‘again’ seizes Marianne for a split second, before she shakes the feeling away.

Roland tips his hat before reaching into his pocket. He takes out a couple silver coins and hands it to the man. “Not a word about this,” he says, words ringing with practice and dull monotony.

Then the warden staggers outside of his little guard house, keys rattling at his sides as he stumbles towards the gate. From here Marianne can see it—the heavy padlock swinging from the gate doors, the metal of it worn and frozen and tired. The large key in the warden’s hand goes in, and there’s an audible click before the padlock clatters to the ground. He curses, and Roland hisses in contempt, but as the door swings open with a screech, Marianne’s fiance strides right on through without a second of hesitation, or even a look back.

Marianne watches, stunned, as Roland disappears into the haze of Bleakley. The warden is picking up the padlock, grumbling about something as he reaches forward to relatch it.

“Wait!” She suddenly calls out, stumbling from the dark and into the piercing eye of the moon. The warden jumps, turning abruptly and dropping the padlock again. He squints at her as she approaches, trying to figure out who she is. She seems familiar.

“Let me through as well,” she asks, stammering a little as she catches her breath. Her fingers are blue, and her nose is a bright red, but she's not satisfied yet. She is not done. She needs to know that he’s _doing_.

The warden frowns, looking her up and down as if to ask her who she thinks she is.

“Please,” she nearly begs. “He. . . That man. . . That man’s my fiance.”

For a moment the warden just looks at her. Watching. Realizing. Then he laughs, long and loud, and picks up the padlock and walks back into his guardhouse. He waves at the open gate, snickering under his breath. “Go right on in then, lass,” he says with a disgusting grin. “Lucky you he paid enough for two silences.”

Marianne grimaces, but steps towards the gate. She looks at the towering metal bars, thinking about how much it resembles a cell for a prisoner. Her hesitation is joined by a growing reluctance to know the truth. The sickening, foul, morbid truth behind Roland’s sugary smile.

Taking a shaky breath, she squeezes through the gateway doors, careful not to touch the cold iron. Just like that, the air is sucked of its clean taste, and thicker shadows swarm in, filling every gap and every crack in the city beyond. The air becomes thick, and she smells the faint sour scent of sewage, smothered in sweet perfumes. Somehow though, it is warmer in Bleakley.

Despite the darkness, Bleakley glows. Candlelight and open doorways light the roads, not streetlamps. There is a murmur about, but she only sees shadows, not souls. She hesitates to walk for a second, but swallows her anxiety and takes her first step into the mysterious district of Bleakley.

She is washed in the cold as the snows falls about her. There are footprints everywhere, and she has no way of knowing which belongs to Roland. Instead, she lets her feet lead her. She passes by houses smelling of some kind of bitter smoke, and houses exploding with noise. Marianne almost jumps out of her skin when she hears a plate shatter, followed by shouts that slice and batter the air. Well, there is certainly one difference between Fayford and Bleakley—Fayford sleeps at night, while her sister thrives.

Looking like a boy, no one calls after her, and she is glad for it. She feels the eyes of men in alleys crawl over her, and under their scrutiny she shivers. Marianne wishes for the comfort of a friend, but the only one she knows in Bleakley right now is not someone she can find solace with. To keep her hands from seeking him out, she shoves them into her pockets and bites the inside of her cheeks.

The longer she walks, the less fear she feels, but that doesn’t loosen her shoulders, or uncurl her fists. She shuffles, chin tucked into her chest as she keeps her eyes open for that crown of gold.

When she sees him, she slips into the closest alley she can find, but by then she realizes there's no point in hiding. He's too distracted to notice her anyhow.

Roland leans against the doorframe of a small, modest house. His voice floats over to where Marianne is standing, and she can recognize the flirtatious lilt in his baritone song. Green eyes stare upward to the pretty girl leaning on the opposite side of the door, and Marianne recognizes the way the girl unravels under his unwavering gaze. To have so much of his attention, and to have it never stray from you—Marianne used to think it a blessing. Now she recognizes it for what it is: a way of making the girl feel like there is nothing else in his world but herself.

The pretty girl at the door laughs aloud, and Marianne cringes. Roland steps up, realizing he is welcome, and kisses the girl in the same way he’s kissed Marianne for the past three years of his courtship; he is tentative and gentle, waiting for a response. Then, when he has it, he leans in to let her taste the extent of his passion. It is bitter and sweet, she knows. It is all-encompassing and all-consuming. It will drink the poor girl to nothing.

 _The real monster in Bleakley is this cheating bastard_ , she curses to herself.

The sight alone makes Marianne sick, and she stumbles back into the darkness of the alley. The weight of the truth finally bears itself upon her, merciless and cruel. _I’ve been played,_ she realizes with a bite. For a moment she thinks to laugh, but the anger that's been building for the past hour gives way to grief, and in the shadows of the two buildings Marianne mourns three wasted years; her wasted efforts and her scarred fingertips, frayed by needles; her obedience in staying home like an imprisoned bird, singing only when her master comes by and whistles a tune to which she must harmonize.

She cries silently, despite the degree of her discovery. Tears slide down her cheeks, soaking her scarf and stiffening into ice. Her breaks shake, but they do not heave or choke. Chest fluttering, she notices that her knuckles are still white with control.

By now Roland’s already disappeared into the house, embraced by another woman’s heart. Marianne sees them melting into each other’s arms in her mind, rolling in sheets and connecting in a way that Roland and Marianne never have. Numbly, she lifts her right hand and stares at the silver band suffocating her ring finger. Fingertips red and shaking with fury, she suddenly feels like she’s going to retch. So she grinds her teeth and tears the ring off her finger, ripping apart his promises and his empty vows, and lifts her arm to toss the cursed thing into the rising snow.

Yet something stops her. Angry, she opens her fist and glares at the glinting band of shallow words. Calming herself, she can’t help a painful smile. _A waste of good silver_. She shoves the foul thing into her pocket and storms out of the alleyway. Rubbing the wetness off her cheeks, she makes her way back to Fayford, not looking back at the house that Roland is sullying. The girl is not at fault in this act of infidelity—it is Roland’s fault alone. Roland and his wandering lips, his wandering hands, and his boundless, beautiful green eyes.

Now Marianne realizes that everything Roland ever did was too perfect. Everything he does seems planned, and well-tested. She never used to find fault in a man who had experience in romantic matters—in fact, she was quite pleased either way—but Roland… He _played_ her. The ring currently dancing in her pocket means absolutely nothing to him, but he offered it anyway. In fact, Marianne is sure that he only ever courted her because of who she is to the city, not for who she is as a person.

She curses to herself. _I’ll never let this happen ever again_ , she vows, clutching the ring Roland gave her. She wills it to be cleansed, for it to be rid of all its earlier promises, and to be overwritten with one anew. This time, with her promise to herself: never fall in love again.

It takes a while, but she wipes her life clean of him. Marianne announces her engagement to him henceforth cancelled, and stone-cold dead. She throws away her sewing needles and every piece of embroidery she’s ever worked on—even the ones that were well done. She wears her favourite pairs of trousers and reclaims her rank in the university, making sure she trumps him in every subject they share. When he first comes to her on his knees, crooked grin plastered on his cheeks, she almost falters. Standing firm, she doesn’t let him get to her. In fact, she announces to the world his crimes against her, and the scandal lasts for maybe a strong ten minutes.

Roland paints her as a mistaken fiancee, hurt by a minor transgression that she’s blown up. A misunderstanding, he calls it, even though there are several women that claim it to be true. However, these women are also played to be liars, so there's no win for Marianne, or them. Some of the women who accused him weren't even mad at him, they just wanted to prove their dalliances. Regardless, Marianne gets over him, even with her father and sister protesting as discreetly as possible.

After this, Marianne’s wonder with Bleakley slows to a crawl, thinking of the district as a foul reminder of Roland’s infidelity, and the cause for her new vow—but such peaceful times are always short-lived.

Marianne is wrong in thinking that her change started with Bonny Plum’s gossip, or even Roland. She’s always had that adventure coursing through her veins; that unbidden curiousity with nowhere to go but into her schooling, or her late-night parties.

Marianne’s change begins when Dawn comes home one night in an unusual, unnatural daze, barely remembering her date with Phenomenal Phillip. Marianne’s change begins when Dawn no longer sleeps, instead spending her nights staring outside her window wistfully and pale as death, flaxen hair limp against her skull.

Her change begins when she opens Dawn’s door to see her sister wrapped in the arms of a shadow, her eyelashes fluttering over orbs of white as the darkness slowly breathes her in, only to stop when it notices Marianne’s disturbance. Frustrated with the intrusion, the shadow disappears into the night, but not before Marianne burns the image into her mind’s eye.

It begins when she rushes to her collapsing sister who sleeps as if drugged, with two petite puncture wounds marring the alabaster valley of her neck.

Shaking, Marianne squeezes her sister and feels a rage overcome her. Not fear, but fury, in the presence of this unknown. It is worse than her anger at Roland, and at her father’s incessant need to remind her about marriage. It is worse than the anger she feels towards herself for having been fooled by a man no better than a moth. She doesn't know how, but she knows she isn't losing her mind. She's sure of what she saw.

“Not my sister,” she hisses to the window, her dark hair whipping about her in the night breeze. Recognizing the demon that she had seen to be the blood-sucking devil himself—the Bleakley vampire—her voice rises over the roar of the wind, “if you want her, you come through me!” Then she turns to her sister, who is now frail and limp, with only a flutter of a heartbeat to join her quivering breaths. Dawn's eyes are sunken now, and so are her cheeks, which are no longer rosy with warmth. She is as cold as snow.

Marianne tries not to sob at the sight of her, pressing her forehead into her sister’s damp hair. Her words are clear, despite her throat squeezing and choking her into a breathy whisper.

“  _I will protect you_.”

Marianne is wrong to think her change begins with a rumour. In truth, it begins with a vow.


	4. A Questionable Deal

Bleakley is stirring with something cruel. The man hears it in the wind, and in the hollow of his bones. Tentatively, he looks to the east, staring at the shimmering ocean which churns black as ink in the night. Then his bright eyes drag over his dominion, darting between the roads lit by fire to then fall upon the iron fence that divides his world from the sickly, poisonous air of the _village_ , Fayford. He tears his eyes away from the sight of it—the cruel city filled with unnecessary decoration and embellishment, where liars hide behind leather gloves, snappy waistcoats, and powdered smiles.

He finds comfort in seeing the haze that roofs his town of Bleakley. The fog that shrouds it like a cape or a cloud, stifling the air, but regardless is the right taste for the local soul. It gives Bleakley its lungs, this air. And the ground beneath, muddy and soft where there is no cobblestone or pavement, dares to swallow all those who tread upon it. Bleakley is a bog, he thinks, a wretched thing that clings to all who find themselves ill-equipped for its jaws. At the thought, the man smiles—of course he finds comfort in the treacherous environment of this place, for he _is_ the King of the Bog. All those who know his shadow know his title, and subsequently their place in his kingdom.

 But to lessen the mouthful, the man is known simply as the Bog King.

 His real name is unknown to all except himself or his mother—but even his mother, Griselda, knows not the name of Bog’s sire, or the name the sire gave Bog. The name of Bog’s _father_ Griselda knows, for certain, but Bog’s immortal name, given by the creature that made him who he is … well, that’s another tale entirely.

Bog sways atop the roof of Bleakley’s bell tower, perched precariously over the edge. The wind tries to topple him, but he does not falter. Bleakley is his, and so is the wind that passes through it. The wind will not shake him, and so will nothing else in his kingdom. 

But there is something _off_ with Bleakley. All of his supporters must account for their feedings, and must hunt within his guidelines. This is to not arouse suspicion of course, for feeding becomes difficult when the quicks are on guard. Lately however, his underlings return to him with the most bizarre claims:

 “That one wasn’t me, ‘highness.”

And how could this be so? Who is hunting those who will be missed when they are lost? Certainly, not all of Bog’s followers are particularly keen, but there are none so stupid to feed on those with an influential family, even by Bleakley’s standards. With this as it is, Bog is trying to figure out who it could possibly be that is defying his word.

They’ve survived for almost four centuries without a single slip up. Who dares to shake the balance now?

He peers down at his domain, curiousity pursing his lips. Staring down his nose at the ants silently milling about in the streets, he watches for a stranger. It could only ever be a stranger, this culprit who undermines his age-old system. Only a stranger could threaten his territory.

But why did Bog not hear it, the entrance of this foul outsider? Why was there no declaring moan as his world bent and relented against the intruding force? There is always a sound, _always_ , when a vampire not of his coven breaks through his established wards. It’s been so for the past two intrusions, and each time he dealt with it quietly. But this time...

  _This is my territory._

 If not a stranger, or an intruder, who is drinking away the lasses of Bleakley? 

Bog clicks his tongue, frowning down at his city. Perhaps one of his followers is lying—but who would that be? Firstly, who’d _dare?_

Bog’s head pounds in response to his frustration. Releasing a sigh, he pushes the worry away and allows his jaw to work. There is a gnawing in his gut; it is a dull scratch from his stomach, clawing its way up his throat. Coughing, Bog swallows dryly. It feels like fire in the back of his mouth. _Hunger. Thirst_. Yes, the afflictions of a creature on Earth plague him. Two things from his mortal life he could not shake, and are therefore clinging to him now.

 _Fine,_ he resigns, and he leaps.

The air about him is quiet, and the wind holds its breath for the second his feet leave the roof of the bell tower. Then the wind roars, and for a moment he flies, carried by the undercurrent into the open air. Riding the wind, leaping soundlessly across rooftops with a speed untraceable to the human eye—oh, the infinite bounties of immortality.

But it isn’t all good. Passing by the Bleakley church, he ignores the glint of the window and the looming stretch of his reflection. He snarls to himself, but moves on, eyes darting quickly away. Instead, he thinks about the next person on his list of prey.

For tonight it is an old man named Jefferson Scott. A sailor, although his sea legs have been unused in years, knotted by land and burdened by age and labour. His daughter, worried about his health, holes him up in their shack by the port, leaving Jefferson only a porthole window to quench his thirst for the vast blue licking the shores beyond. He is 92, and wishes to die at sea, but this wish cannot be fulfilled with his daughter anchoring him home.

Bog spots the modest house when it is but a speck in his vision. When he arrives, the home groans in impatience, as if it's been anticipating him. Then he looms on the roof, staring down at the lonely, ragged window. Seeing the eyes of the old man wet, but frightfully focused on the sea outside of his reach, Bog knows that his hunger has come right on time.

For now however, the Bog King watches. He has all the time in the world after all. His own eyes are glowing bright, he knows it, and his stomach wrenches in frustration at its own pitiful emptiness. Regardless, Bog waits.

When Jefferson turns from the window, Bog descends. Turning into a substance like smoke, body disassembling and adjusting to accommodate his will, he squeezes through the cracks in the window and takes form behind Jefferson. He stands quietly, feeling his body shift and become intact as it finds itself again. The old man he's watching shuffles inside the little room, floorboards creaking underneath his dragging feet. When Jefferson sits down on his cot, which dips under his weight, he asks in his raspy voice, “are you Death?”

Bog is impressed. He sees no fear in him.

“Some say that I am,” he replies, his voice only but a slithering of shadows. He waits, anticipating a shiver or a dash of grief.

But Jefferson only looks up at Bog, wizened eyes flitting back and forth between the vampire’s glowing irises. Then the old man speaks a soft, “No,” before shaking his head. “They are wrong to say so. You are naught but his messenger.”

Bog blinks, but his hunger burns and aches, so he finds no other reply. Silently, he steps forward, moving across the floor. Jefferson shivers from the cold of Bog’s hands, but does nothing more. When Bog leans down to finally sink his teeth into the old man’s neck, he says into his ear:

“I will give you the sea.”

And his fangs are sinking, sinking, sinking, like a ship lost in a crescendo of waves. Blood like rum flows into Bog’s throat, and suddenly he can see the sliver of sunrise on the horizon, like an explosion of heavenly light without an inch of land to ruin it. The boat beneath his feet rocks, but he knows its dance like he knows the mood of the wind and storm. The ocean would play no stranger to him, no matter how much it tries to shake him. There is the jolt as the ship anchors and he is finally at port, welcomed by the sweet taste of the salty air mixing with earth and coast. Then the thrill of returning to unforgiving ocean once more. He can feel a breeze filling the sails above him like lungs, attuned to the swell of his chest and the race of tides in his veins. The spray of the sea on his face is like gentle kisses, but so are the little feet pattering on wood, joined by melodious laughter of a glowing welcome home. A daughter with eyes like the deep ocean green. A wife more enchanting than the sunset on the rippling crest of an azure wave. A marriage on land, and a marriage to the sea. This is all he’s ever dreamed. This is his life.

 _No_ , Bog thinks as his eyes snap open, practically tearing himself from the mirage of memories and dreams threaded into the blood of a sailor-born. _This is Jefferson’s life._

And he emerges from the depths of Jefferson’s memories like he's emerging from the belly of the ocean, gasping for breath. Bog feels Jefferson’s blood course through him, taming his stomach and his hunger, and loosening his muscles before fortifying them. Before the body in his arms grows limp, Bog closes the wound before it can bleed, then arranges the corpse as if Jefferson's died in his sleep. He is peaceful, a smile almost gracing his lips.

The vampire wipes his lips. Rarely is it that the human relives their memories when Bog drinks from them, but Jefferson must’ve yearned for it hard enough. Bog knew somehow that Jefferson would be that rare case. The old, where dreams are second strongest besides in youth, have the greatest chance for the recollection.

Like Jefferson wished, he died on the sea.

Bog straightens, hearing faintly through the house the front door unlocking, and swinging open. A woman shuffles, clearing her throat in preparation to call her father down. Bog strides away, taking one last look at the old man lying lifeless on the bed before filing his name away in his mind. Jefferson will not be forgotten.

No longer burdened by thirst, Bog walks through his streets without interference or distraction from the heartbeats of everyone he passes. The Quicks barely chance him a glance, thinking he's either shadow or stranger, despite them all knowing him somehow in their blood. Some shiver in fear, but dismiss it for the cold, pulling their scarves further up their faces as they huddle closer to the homes. Others feel a chill as they graze the very hem of his cloak, passing it off for a faint breeze before shoving their hands deeper into their worn pockets.

Winter is such a wonderful season.

As Bog passes by his subordinates, blending in with the crowds, they all give him a faint nod, eyes cast downward to express their faithfulness. They briefly glance to his eyes, now gone from their cold blue of satisfied hunger, to the bright gold rings of his immortality. He stares back at them with scrutiny.

How could any of them dare to work against him? How would any of them be able to lie about their hunts?

 _Speaking of hunts,_ Bog’s jaw tightens, _there is another nuisance in Bleakley_. What is it with this year? Are the stars aligning to chaos?

A hunter has appeared in his kingdom—someone who needs to learn their place.

“A pretty boy,” Stuff tells him at last week’s moondown with Thang at her side, “with a Fayford pistol, so the ghouls say. A silver cross hangs around his neck, and he carries one stake of hawthorn, and another of white oak. He’s hunting for you, your highness, as well as the other vampires in your coven, although you're prestige is weighing in a great deal. They say he carries a vial of holy water and a pocket of saint’s ashes.”

Bog can’t help but smirk. “Well researched, this one. Doubt that last bit—humans cannot possibly desecrate their holy. These are well found, Stuff. Good job.”

Stuff bows her head in gratitude, but continues, “The hunter’s taken out a few of your ghouls, highness. If the hunter continues, this may cause distress amongst our numbers.”

“Do you think I don't know this already, Stuff?” Bog stands, a looming superpower. Stuff bows deeper, and she shivers under his steady gaze. Bog finds comfort that he can still strike fear into his own following after all these years. Over the centuries, he fears he's growing soft, and they're growing too accustomed.

“I mean no disrespect, your grace,” Stuff says, voice betraying nothing.

“No need for an apology. Your report is very useful. I will deal with the hunter as soon as I can. Now leave me.”

And Stuff vanishes into the night, soundless despite how heavy you’d expect her step to be. She is, by all accounts, not considered particularly beautiful, but her powerful gait, and her lifted chin, make her undeniably something to behold. She doesn’t frequently smile, her round cheeks only ever penetrated by a frown or a patronizing smirk, but her beady eyes pierce knowingly. Compared to her peer, Thang, she's certainly the more observable one. She dwarfs him with her wide frame and purposeful step, but that is to be expected when a banshee is partnered with a gremlin of sorts.

Thang, surprised at his partner’s sudden exit, trips over himself slightly before leaving through the same exit Stuff did. Suddenly remembering his disrespect, Thang returns and bows to his King, before leaving Bog alone in one of the many abandoned houses in the north of Bleakley.

The dynamic between those two is always interesting. Despite how much Bog can see little potential in Thang’s competency, Stuff insists on his presence.

“He’s learning, your grace,” she’d say, before nudging Thang to report on her behalf, to prove he’s somewhat making progress. Stuff’s sincerity is admirable, so Bog lets her do as she pleases. Plus, Thang isn’t particularly horrible to have around anyhow. He’s grown on him.

Bog replays the last moondown report in his head as he wanders his streets. Despite saying he’d handle the hunter, there isn’t much he can do.

The hunter knows how to cover his tracks. When another one of Bog’s coven is found dead, their supernatural immortality cut short, he searches frantically for a trace scent of the hunter. Regardless of his efforts, he can find nothing to lead him to the infamous hunter that terrorizes his people.

As if worrying about the vampire intruding on his territory isn’t enough, now he also has to deal with an ambitious, mortal hunter who just happens to be far too educated in the matters of the underworld to be done away with quickly. Bog curses under his breath, feeling weary but furious at the same time.

His legs stop mid-stride. Stiffening, he concentrates on the intrusion to his senses.

A sickly sweet smell permeates the air. It's so faint that he is sure that none of his followers can catch it, only him. Curious, he turns down one road purposefully, compelling the night crowds around him to make way for him. When he suddenly recognizes a hint of a copper, he moves faster.

_Blood. The sweetest he’s ever smelled._

For a moment he feels like the empty carcass of his heart could almost race. The fact he’s recently fed means almost nothing.

When he comes upon a broken down shack, he knows he’s found the source. It's surrounded by nothing but rubble and planks of wood, covered in weathered tarp and decay. It's one of the few homes that was abandoned when Bleakley became more populated and people didn’t want to live too close to the northern forest, in favour of the city to the west of them. But with the lovely smell is something else—a rot that he recognizes. One of his own is dead.

Growing furious, Bog lunges forward, spinning into a shapeless shadow before reassembling in front of the mangled corpse of Lougie within the shack. Lougie is— _was_ — a minor ghoul who found solace in only eating small sickly animals. To the human race he was harmless, therefore his death wasn't necessary. It was unwarranted.

Bog’s teeth grinds. _This cursed hunter—_

“ _Aaaah_!” A roar comes from above, and Bog turns just in time to see a silhouette descending upon him from one of the house’s beams, a wooden stake brandished in one hand. When the figure passes through the light of the moon peering in from the damaged roof, Bog is surprised only a little bit.

The hunter appears to be a huntress.

He sidesteps, and the woman lands with a bang on the floorboards next to him, knees bending to soften her fall. She stumbles only slightly.

“Finally,” she growls, “you finally show your face.” She's faster than he thinks, and her second hand whips upward, and suddenly Bog is staring down the barrel of a gun.

_Bang!_

He is on the other side of the room in a blink of an eye, hidden in the shadows. The bullet penetrates the weathered wood with a thunk, raining splinters downward on the huntress. Bog tilts his head when the huntress whips around, revolver aimed high. A silver crucifix frees itself from her collar and dangles from her neck, glinting under her scowl.

“I didn’t know what I expected, but your followers are unbearably loyal,” she says, searching for Bog in the shadows. “They never tell me a lick of where to find you. Lucky for me, you’re here. I’d recognize that murky appearance any day.”

_Bang!_

Bog frowns back at her as he steps out of the darkness.

“I didn’t know what _I_ expected, but certainly not a woman with a grudge...” he trails off, accidentally voicing his thoughts because of genuine surprise. He's not bewildered by her sex so much as her ferocity and quickness, and the fact that she’s been using his coven to find him.

The woman rolls her eyes and she laughs, almost cruelly. The sound is almost musical. “How could you not expect this, you bloodthirsty corpse?” Her finger curls. _Bang!_ “You target my sister and you have the audacity to play at ignorance?”

Bog raises an eyebrow at the furious woman. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, lass.”

“Don’t play _dumb_ with me!” She fires one more time.

Despite his efforts to dodge her bullets, he's distracted by the tantalizing scent in the air. Eyes darting, he catches sight of a dark stain on the huntress’ side. It must be adrenaline and rage that's driving her now, because her blood is dripping to the floor and she's barely sparing it a thought—Lougie was perhaps not as dumb as everyone thought, even though the wound is shallow. It's a good thing that Bog’s recently eaten, or this would’ve been unbearable to endure.

“If it was possible for me to play dumb, I would,” Bog drawls, finding he's struggling with her more than he would admit. She's faster than he thinks, and she sees him better in the dark than any other normal human could. In fact, he's thrown off a little by it.

“Then explain this—” she slips her white oak stake into a loop in her belt, and tears out a crumpled handkerchief from her pocket. A dull scent wafts in his direction, and when she balls it into a fist and whips it at him, he confirms the scent for what it is.

Dried blood is smeared across the soft cotton, a mere couple droplets of brown dusting the surface. The smell is faint, aged and faded, but still sweet. Even if it was fresh, Bog is sure it would be nothing compared to what spills from the huntress in front of him, despite the tantalizing promise it carries.

“ _Now_ do you recall? You’ve been feeding off my sister, you rotting, backwater _leech!_ ” The huntress bellows, almost shrill. Another shot, but it's useless. Bog looks into her eyes and sees a fire there, an inferno feeding off her grief and her love. Despite her frighteningly focused eyes, there is a sadness, a worry that bleeds through the pinch of her brows. He almost recognizes the desperation, the helplessness, but what he truly reads as clear as the night sky in the depths of her brown eyes is guilt.

But her blood is growing more distracting by the second.

“And if I am, huntress, what will you do about it?”

The question only seems to antagonize her further. Her finger clenches and another sharp clap thunders through the air. It doesn’t even graze him, but now it's clear that she isn’t firing to hit—she’s pulling the trigger for the sake of pulling the trigger.

“I’ll kill you,” she hisses, a whisper that comes out more like a promise than a threat. It almost sends a shiver down his spine.

Bog, amused at this declaration, strides soundlessly to her back. Looking down at her head as she swivels in search of him, he sees the palest hints of gold in her wild hair. He leans down, smirking as he whispers into her ear—

“—But can you?”

The huntress barely hesitates before slipping the white oak stake from her belt. It arcs through the air as she pivots, a pale slice of the moon in the shadows of the run down shack, but Bog easily catches her wrist in one hand. Before her trigger-happy fist can react, he disarms her of her revolver with a flick and discards the weapon a distance away. It skids before hitting the wall with a clack, and her teeth clench almost in sync.

He smiles down at her, impressed at how far from helpless she seems. She looks about ready to gnaw his nose off, and he knows she will if opportunity so much as peeks at her.

In ways, Bog is the same, but in this case he’s already snatched opportunity and is shaking hands with fate.

Bog reads the initials on the corner of the handkerchief as he maintains his grip on the girl. He isn’t so out of tune that he can't identify a noble of Western descent, despite abhorring the district with a vehement passion. In many ways the huntress was foolish in throwing her own personal handkerchief at him, even though he assumes it was because of emotional drive and recklessness. Yet, because of her mistake, he can now identify her.

 _M.A-V._ is crookedly stitched into the bottom corner of the soft cotton, telling of a shaky, impatient hand, and a family name that is as obnoxious as the dash in it.

Marianne Avery-Warren, the eldest daughter of the Fayford Mayor. She stands before him like a storm carried in by the wind, crackling with lightning, and threatening to shock him from his head to his toes. Until her hands are free she roils with thunderous booms and bellows, eager to consume him.

He adjusts his grip on her wrists, making sure he isn’t too rough, or too gentle, before he widens his smirk.

“And how may I help you, princess?”

The last word almost makes the girl bare her teeth at him, and Bog can read in the flicker of movement in her muscles that she's considering lunging at his throat. The feistiness in the girl is intoxicating in the way that it intrigues him a little too much. It’s hard to look away.

Her voice, tearing into the night, reminds him of where they stand.

“You can help me by giving my sister back to me.” In the demand Bog hears a plea. It is faint, but it's unbearably human.

“You’re sister is safe at home, is she not?” He tests.

Marianne shifts her weight, eyeing him dangerously. “You know what I mean.”

 _Not really, no_ , he thinks to himself. But by the way Marianne is still trying find ways to reach the second stake looped in her belt he's suddenly sure that Dawn Avery-Warren is suffering. She is being made to be a slow drink. A lounge in a parlour, with feet propped on a table. Bog can see it now, the intruder of a vampire taking tantalizing sips from the girl, not to sate a hunger, but to taste, to mark.

Bog realized something the moment he read Marianne Avery-Warren’s initials. His own coven isn't even allowed to trespass into Fayford, no less feast on the folk there. Fayford is troublesome in the sense that if one victim drops, the entire city implodes—this was learned the hard way in the coven’s first century of existing, when they were small and unstable. So, there’s only a couple possibilities left to consider.

Firstly, it's possible one of his vampires is lying to him. It could be one of the younger ones, ambitious and naive in their thoughts about what blood is better quality than another, like a reverse way of choosing wine—the younger the better. If it is, then Bog will find the straying pup and reinstate his laws. Secondly, it might be the vampire that intruded on his territory. Someone who naturally doesn’t know Bog’s rules, and is foolishly unique in their hunting patterns, and because of it is now easy to track.

Whoever this vampire is, they are foolish, attacking the huntress’ sister in a drawn-out fashion. Now they’ve incurred Marianne’s wrath, bringing her to Bog’s doorstep. If he couldn’t find the wayward vampire before, now he’s been served a way to track him or her down on a silver platter; Dawn Avery-Warren is marked as prey, and that means the fool will be back for her again.

“If you’ve come to get your sister back, we’re going to have to reach some kind of agreement,” Bog says, watching the girl’s reaction closely. Marianne’s fists clench, but she's looking him in the eye rather than at the weapons in her clothes. _How many are there?_

She scoffs, but her gaze is unwavering. “An agreement with a vampire? Do I look like an idiot to you?” Once again she tries to wrench her wrists from his grip. He doesn’t budge.

Bog straightens, not to loom, but to remind her where she stands right now, in these shadows, in an abandoned shack on the edge of town. He shows her she doesn’t have much of a choice. An agreement of some kind, or she disappears without a trace, no speck to leave her family.

“Not an idiot, no,” he shakes his head. “But it looks like you’ll do anything for your sister, lass.” _And that alone is both noble, and foolish._ _Easy to exploit perhaps, but admirable nonetheless_.

Marianne’s head falls a little, and now she’s looking at him through her lashes. Her lips purse as her jaw works. When she talks, her voice is so quiet he's sure that if he hadn’t been particularly immortal on this evening, then he would’ve asked her to repeat herself.

“And you have something in mind?” She asks, eyeing him suspiciously. Despite this, Bog recognizes the lessening of tension in her shoulders. Smiling, he slowly uncurls his fingers from her narrow wrists and steps back, watching as she only breathes, chest rising and falling, her hands not reaching for any of her weapons. His smile widens a little.

“A truce is all, princess.” Marianne’s eyes narrow at his words, but when she puts her hands on her hips instead of the hawthorn oak, Bog continues. “You’ve troubled me for quite a few weeks, a month and a half now, with your hunts in Bleakley. It’s messing with morale—it’s been unbearably difficult to find you, and you’ve been picking away at my coven without a single bat of an eyelash—”

She interrupts, “You’ve been targeting my _sister._ ”

“I know,” Bog raises hands to calm her, although irritation rushes through him, “Perhaps I will stop, but it all depends in the course of time.” He lowers his hands palms skyward and splays his fingers, smile disappearing from his face. It may be because of the smell in the room, but a dangerous selfishness creeps into Bog’s mind, and he wonders if he can manage to eat her now, see her memories, and find the intruding vampiric bastard on his own. To keep her talking he says, “And what will you do about it?”

Hearing this, Marianne stiffens. Perhaps she can feel his apathy growing. Teeth grinding she says—perhaps without thought— “Take _my_ blood instead, not hers.”

Bog blinks as her words sink in, eyes widening slightly as he's caught by surprise. A smirk spreads dangerously on his face as he watches the girl pause and think about her proposal. “Oh?” He muses.

When her own realization hits, Marianne’s brown eyes are a little wide, and the hands on her hips shake just a tad as she finally looks away from Bog. It's a bargain, agreeing to her proposal. More, it’s dangerous. No one’s made a deal like this in years, for many reasons. What even compelled the huntress to offer escapes his reasoning. If Bog agrees, he’ll make sure that this deal won’t be compromised—it’ll be simply professional. A treat even, finally finding such sweet blood after all these centuries.

The huntress swallows, arms crossing in front of her chest. The silence is palpable as he waits on her thoughts.

“For my blood you will leave my sister alone?” Her voice is quiet.

Bog tries not to smirk, but a triumph is being had. “Certainly, lass. On my word. And to make sure you live I will take less than a tenth of what courses in you every time we meet. In exchange you will cease your hunts on my coven.”

Then Marianne turns her flashing eyes to him and she sneers, slightly bewildering considering her earlier calm tone. “Do you think I am so stupid to accept only those terms? I’m not done here. This isn’t a deal unless I make my piece, you impatient mosquito. Despite the fact that Dawn means the world to me, her soul alone is not a fair trade for your entire nest of rotten beasts. I hunt for two reasons—to protect, and to purge. If you want me to cease hunting your monsters—and you could’ve killed me for it a long time ago, though it seems I’ve been difficult to stop, despite the fact I’m painfully mortal— _you_ have to cease hunting humans.”

To have the deal turned on him so quickly, Bog is both impressed and extremely annoyed. He glowers at the huntress, stepping towards her and hunching, to take up her vision and make her small. Regardless of his efforts, Marianne straightens her back and meets his gaze. She's unwavering, unhesitant, without a hint of fear in an inch of her body.

Bog doesn’t care. “Then what would you have us hunt instead, princess? Unlike humans we can’t eat your food. We will not survive without our own hunt. I will not take a deal where my coven is left starving, because then there will be nothing within my power or my interests to stop a famished horde from ravaging both Bleakley _and_ Fayford. So if you want to change the terms, think of something better. _Fairer_.”

Marianne blinks, but no empathy seeps in. Her eyes narrow at him and she says, “My blood for Dawn’s. I stop hunting your coven, and you keep your fangs _outside_ of Fayford.” And Bog almost smiles—how is this different from normal? But then she says, “I’ve been paying attention, you dry-lipped twig. I’ve kept track of your prey. You’re moving west—I suggest you stop that, or you’ll have a stake at your throat soon enough.”

Bog’s eyes narrow slowly. “I haven’t noticed.”

Marianne sneers, crossing her arms. “Of course you haven’t.”

Moving west? Had the intruder really been doing that? Bog frowns a little, wondering at how he didn’t even consider tracing the vampire’s hunting patterns other than his preferred type. He’d noted the locations, but not how much further west they were moving. He makes a mental reminder to get Stuff to arrange more watchful eyes closer to the border.

To shake off his dangerous musings, he smirks. “So you care about Fayford, but what about the folk on Bleakley?” When Marianne looks away he thinks, _Of course._

Bog sticks out his hand to the girl in front of him, taking one last look at her brown hair with threads of yellow, and her eyes like locked chests of dark wood. He wonders if they house secrets, and if in the sun they open to reveal the gold within. He blames Jefferson’s blood for the thoughts in his head, thinking her eyes to be a treasure at the bottom of a harsh sea.

“Do we have a deal, princess?” He asks instead, unwilling to lose her now, not when he’s on the cusp of tasting the sweetest blood he’s ever chanced upon.

It takes a moment. In fact, Bog can read almost every thought that crosses Marianne’s face as she thinks about this deal, this contract, this _commitment_. But then she unfolds her arms from her chest and stretches out a hand. Her grip is firm as they shake on it, and Bog almost smiles at the unwavering quality to her gaze.

“We do.”

And with her words Bog can feel the world shake in acknowledgment. A cold wind snakes around their hands and binds them, and he knows he cannot go against his word. If either of them do, there would be consequences. The world is watching them now and they cannot misstep. Not once.

As an immortal, Bog knows the worth of promises and deals. He can feel the air around him shiver in anticipation. Marianne is mortal and doesn’t feel the house sigh around them, quivering in some kind of reprieve, but that's fine. Her grip and the purse to her lips tell him enough that she will not bend.

She is a woman of her word.

“See you next month on the manor at the top of the hill,” Bog says as he moves back into the shadows, letting his form fall away into smoke. “One more thing—bring no weapons.”

Marianne narrows her eyes. “Fine.”

The last thing he lets her see are his fangs, glinting in a smile as he disappears into the air.

 

* * *

 

He knows he’s being impatient. Waiting a month to taste the blood that haunts his nights—it’s all a test of self-control really. To distract himself he stands guard atop Marianne's roof, waiting for the intruding vampire to return. He's increased the watch at the border and around other pretty lassies in Bleakley, but so far he's received no luck in finding the rogue vampire. It doesn't bother him too much, even though it should. Perhaps he's too excited, and because of it his minions question him, telling him there's something new to his step (they won’t dare call it a bounce). Then of course Bog answers, not seeing the worth in keeping it a secret.

“I’ve got myself a sweet one,” he says to Stuff and Thang one night, staring out at the moon. “And I will be seeing her soon.”

They share a glance, uncertain to his meaning. When Bog clacks his teeth they understand, but Stuff frowns only slightly. She knows the concern in a blood contract, and so does her King. She voices nothing.

When Bog first sees Marianne climbing the hill to the abandoned manor, he almost leaps down to greet her, willing to scare her. He can hear her heartbeat in the rush of the snow, faint and muffled in the treacherous wind. He wants to hear it race.

He opens the door for her, like a gentleman, before watching her search for him in the darkness. Eyes dart around her before she stiffens, head turning slightly in his direction. Bog smiles, making his entrance into her senses. For a while he makes conversation, trying to ignore the way her heartbeat echoes around the room for him, an intoxicating symphony that he does not, and cannot, conduct. When she tells him, “Enough,” he almost erupts.

And words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them, his hand on her throat keeping her off the floor. Her pulse quickens under his fingertips but he keeps his eyes on hers, emphasizing his words so she understands that none of this is a joke to him. Her _sacrifice_ is not a joke to him. Then her stubbornness grates on him, and he forces himself to relax. Explaining everything again, with her neck this close to his lips, is difficult, but he endures.

Yet when his teeth first sink into her he knows he’s triumphant. Teeth piercing moonlit skin, soft like silk, and blood like something beyond the reach of any heaven. Bog tries not to gulp, tries not to coax her veins more than they are willing, but the temptation is immense. His control wavers significantly. Her emotions crash into him wave upon wave—fear, hatred, disbelief, determination, hope—but he's searching for something. He sifts through it all, trying not to linger on a single memory for too long. It doesn’t take him long to find it; the memory is fresh, though not necessarily new. Marianne’s simply been treasuring, or rather, _clinging_ to every detail in a way to keep the memory alive.

A shadow stands at Dawn Avery-Warren’s window, like a stormy wisp of ink. Arms of smoke drop the golden girl, and Dawn collapses to the floor, curling into a pale heap. A meal intruded. The victim’s breath is shallow, her eyes lidded.

Bog cannot look at the vampire escaping from the room for long enough before Marianne’s strong emotions force him to stare at Dawn’s limp form. Frail. Helpless. The older sister’s heightened panic floods the memory and Bog is stumbling from it, rejected by the fear and worry that encases it. He staggers through a memory of Marianne first shooting a gun, the recoil rippling through her arm. Then her first kill, blood spilling onto her hands. It bleeds into him, all these untethered emotions, and suddenly he feels pity for Dawn. A drink in a lounge—what is he thinking? This isn’t a relaxing sip. There is something to this vampire's nature more barbaric than even Bog’s tolerance—in his unlawful kingdom of Bleakley—would allow.

The natural instinct is to feed. But to play with the prey for an excruciating amount of time, torturing the body to teeter on the edge between health and decay—this vampire is something else beyond reason. This vampire is not following any laws at all, and is simply _playing?_

Then the emotions of the now hit him. And so do fists. When he feels himself being tugged, Bog realizes that Marianne is denying him.

Shock and shame meld into one and he is back inside his own head, feeling his teeth withdraw from the huntress’ throat. Echoes of her pain rattle through his mind and dizzies him for a moment. His vision sharpens too fast and he’s in a daze, almost drunk.

Marianne tells him that the feeding causes her too much pain. Pain which he understands is unknowable to him now. Seeing her flitting gaze, tears running down her cheeks and falling to her chest, Bog feels the weight of guilt settle on his shoulders.

He'd seen Marianne as an angry woman with a grudge, willing to sacrifice herself to protect her sister in any way, even if that included her own life. In some ways he had been right in his first impression, but now he sees her as something more. Bent on justice, sad beyond portrayal, fearful but courageous, selfless in unknowable ways, and painfully, utterly human.

A monster is stealing bits of her sister one shard at a time, and in the face of it she sees herself as useless. Too idle. Too _weak_. To counter this, she hunts Bog’s kind, hoping to one day find by chance the culprit who's killing her sister slowly, praying she’ll beat him before her sister flickers out. He doesn't forgive her for what she's done to his coven, but somehow he understands her.

But it isn’t Bog who's committing this crime against Dawn. And it isn’t any of his own. Then who could it be? He closes his eyes, disgust and fury sparking within him.

Marianne is not a _Q_ _uick_. The fire in which her emotions blaze is infinite in kindling. She will not burn out; he cannot see how she could.

So he'll help her. He will find the vampire who interferes with both of their lives, and they will destroy her, or him, together. He vows it.

Bog takes away her pain, her wounds, and when she suddenly jokes, he finds himself blushing. Her smile stuns him. They shine beautifully, her eyes, reflecting the amber pendant hanging from his neck. There is no need for the sun to unlock them; the moon does that well enough.

They talk to each other civilly, instead of threaten and insult. Her voice is soft and purposeful with every word she speaks, tolerating as much she’ll allow with the vampire she thinks is killing her sister. Bog listens to her, like a melody in a storm, unsure if he can tell her the truth. The relief in her heart, knowing that with her deal Dawn may be safe, is too delicate to shatter.

He swallows, unsure why he can’t just _tell_ her. Instead he makes a mental note to take it upon himself to increase his own guard on the Avery-Warren household.

Drinking Marianne's blood could be seen as a mistake, he sees that now. He's now empathizing with her in ways a vampire shouldn’t with his prey. What causes this he cannot surmise. Is it because her memories are powerful enough to eject him? Is it because her blood is so strong that it strikes humanity in him? Sparking pity in a heart that no longer beats? Or is it because she reminds him of himself somehow? A mortal-made-hunter, seeing no other choice? Bog scoffs at the thought.

Perhaps it's because her blood is so sweet he's now high on its essence.

That one sounds about right, Bog decides, dismissing all other possibilities.

Why else would he tell her his real name, and how instead he’d rather be called Bog? How is it possible he thought it right to tell her such a secret in their second interaction? He still doesn’t know, and probably would never.

Yet not once did she shame him, or laugh at him. And with how she looks at him, Bog forgets for an hour or two what he looks like, and what he thinks of it. In her eyes, for a second too long, he feels like something other than a beast.

He feels … well, he doesn’t quite know what he feels.

But he knows that it isn't a bad feeling. In fact, it's almost consuming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to dedicate this chapter to Endorathewitch! :D She has been a major inspiration for me, and her contributions to the Strange Magic fandom are both immense and spectacular. I want her to know that, because I truly believe it. There have been people who've been rude to her, telling her she writes "too much" but let me say that here is no such thing! She was one of the first bloggers on tumblr to welcome me into the fandom, and although I don't talk to her often and I am not always vocal about my support, I thought I'd like to make a shout-out to her here for this update. She is incredibly creative, and she deserves a lot more love. I haven't talked to anyone more sweet. I love you Endorathewitch! Hope you never put down that pen (or in this case, I hope you don't take your fingers off that keyboard. We need you!)


	5. Hate The Sin

 

Dawn’s skin is flushed, finally breaking the fever that’s lasted for weeks. Even with her prolonged condition, it's clear she's recovering with every day that passes. Still, Marianne isn’t blind to how her sister stares longingly through her window, one hand reaching for the closed latch with every measurement of will she possesses. Ridiculously, her energy permits her limp arm to remain at her side, a faint flex the most she can muster. Her blue eyes are ringed red, sunken, and half-lidded with weariness, but she fights her drowsiness with the ghost of a smile on her lips.

“He’ll come for me,” she says in her sleep, hope lacing her words in a way that makes Marianne suck in her upper lip.

 _He better not_.

Marianne stands, wringing out the water from a towel she’s using to dab at the sweat beading on her sister’s forehead. A wave of fatigue washes over her and she staggers suddenly, gripping the edge of Dawn’s vanity until her knuckles are bone-white.

Marianne is tired, so _unbelievably_ tired. Closing her eyes, she raises one hand to her neck, pressing her palm against the sore spot at the base of her throat. Memories of Bog’s striking blue eyes ripple through her mind, and her jaw clenches in response. He _was_ gentle last night, but that doesn’t make up for how he's treated Dawn, and his intrusion in their household like some infested rat, nibbling away at her light.

Straightening, Marianne thinks against her better judgement, _He’s different_ . Different from what she expected from the vampire killing her sister. He's… regal. Composed. And almost—if she dares consider it—honourable. He didn’t rush her when they were at the manor at the hill. He didn’t tear into her throat like a beast. He doesn’t even drink more than he's supposed to, even though it feels like she's being drawn into his throat like being dragged into a grave. In fact, he drank _less_ than he was supposed to the first time _,_ considering Marianne interrupted him.

And Bog's kept his word. Dawn’s been untouched since they struck their deal.

On the night she met him she expected more cruelty. She expected a triumphant reaction to Marianne accusing him of slowly killing Dawn. Instead, she received a suggestion of a truce; a request to stop the bloodshed. She knows now that Bog's getting far less blood from her than he would have with Dawn, so why did he accept her offer? Uncomfortable, Marianne shifts her weight, nibbling at her bottom lip. Is it her blood? Her blood isn't special, so it can’t possibly be for that reason. But if it _is_  her blood, then that's disappointing. A reason like that is far too simple to give up feeding on other humans altogether. There's no way her blood is enough for him.

_I’m missing something here._

She doesn't get to consider it for much longer, for behind her she hears a creak like thunder through her thoughts and she spins to the door, hand reaching for something at her hip. Fingers grasp air, and she almost curses—

“Marianne?”

Muscles loosen and Marianne forces herself to straighten, smoothing the tense expression on her face with a smile. “Good morning, father.” She reminds herself that she’s at home. It's broad daylight. There's no need for a gun.

Mayor Warren stands in the doorway to Dawn’s room like a ghost, unsure about his own presence. His eyebrows lift a bit, probably having seen the monstrous expression on Marianne’s face before it melted into something he recognized. Brushing the concern away, he clears his throat before asking her into the hall. He looks at Dawn for a second as Marianne passes him to stand in the corridor, his tension softening into a sorrow that ages his face significantly. Then he turns away, and Marianne knows he's thinking about that he can’t help Dawn much except by paying for the medical fees. Regardless, he's by her side every moment he isn’t working, despite how helpless he feels merely holding his daughter’s hand. Marianne knows he’s shaken, but he's as much a mayor as he is a father, and will split himself in two if he has to.

On the first night Dawn’s ill health became apparent, Mayor Warren was prepared to tear apart the whole town in search of the person who did this to his youngest daughter. Was it some drug? Did someone infect her with some outside virus? Who hurt her? But Marianne knows that as long as he thinks of it as some disease or ailment, he will never be able to fix it. He wasn't there the night Dawn was at her worst, in Marianne’s arms after being discarded by the vampire. Regardless, Dagda still tries his hardest, despite the fact he isn’t as young as he used to be.

When he closes the door to Dawn’s room, Marianne asks, “what is it?”

Her father sighs, hands trembling against the frame of Dawn’s door. “H—how is she?”

“She's a little better. She spoke to me the other day.” Even though it was merely a plea for her vampire lover. Because of this, Marianne doesn't advise Dagda to sit in with Dawn for too long, in case she accidentally admits some madness about loving a blood-sucking demon.

Dagda straightens, placing a hand to his chest. “Thank God,” he says, relief visible on his face as the stiffness leaves him. “ _Thank God_.”

Marianne smiles. His love for his family is so _incredibly_ strong, something beyond words. She remembers keenly when she first cut her hair several years ago. Dawn had stumbled in on her, shocked to silence at the sight of Marianne with scissors poised at her head in their shared bathroom. Marianne at the time was seventeen, and Dawn thirteen, both still discovering who they were in their world. For a few short moments they had stared at each other, soundless, unsure how to proceed. Then Dawn stepped inside, closed the door, and raised a finger to her lips.

She said then, “It really brings out your cheekbones. Can you do mine?”

At this, Marianne blinked. Then grinned. “Why not? Let me finish first.”

Dawn then sat next to her, eyeing her with some sort of wonder. After the air filled again with snipping sounds, Dawn asked, “Why _are_ you cutting your hair so short?”

Marianne remembers the way her face pinched at the memory. “Aaron, from the classroom across mine, thought it funny to cut off a lock for some foul love potion. I wasn’t exactly going to let him, so he took what I wouldn’t give. Grabbed my hair in his fist like some alley loon and whipped out a pair of scissors. If I hadn’t screamed like a banshee, I feel like I would’ve lost more than a couple inches—but I still did, in the end. _Never again_ will I let some fool grab my hair and drag me about, and _especially_ not for some make-believe love potion, not while _I_ can help it. I also need to fix the mess he made of it. Plus, long hair is hard to manage, always having other people do it for me, having it get caught in things where it needn’t be—but having it like this _does_ bring out my cheekbones, doesn’t it?”

Their father found them laughing in front of the mirror, locks of brown and gold scattered on the floor. When they finally saw his face, blanching at the sight of his daughters with hair as short as boyish curls, they stilled. How was he going to react? Would he be furious? Were they in for the lecture of their lives about femininity and how having short hair might damage their prospects for marriage? Instead of distress however, colour returned to his cheeks.

“I didn’t recognize my beautiful girls for a moment there. Next time let me call someone to do it properly, Marianne. Those bangs are hideous.” And they laughed together. _Truly_ laughed together.

But it isn’t always sunshine and flowery fields. Dawn’s long list of lovers makes him anxious, and her frequent meets with her best friend, Sunny—or Dayton, as is his _actual_ name that no one apparently uses other than Dawn when she’s being frightfully serious rather than playful—in the kitchens downstairs makes Dagda fearful. Then, of course, there’s Marianne ending her engagement with Roland, which inevitably creates a thread of tension between her and her father. He still doesn’t approve of the cancellation, despite how much he recognizes Marianne’s unfaltering conviction. Now he watches carefully, uncertain, even though it’s obvious he still loves her and his youngest. It’s hard for him to hide the looks of sadness or confusion in his eyes when he thinks they can’t see him.

Now Dagda sees his eldest as a wanderer, leaving in the dark of night in hood and shadow. A girl burdened with a broken heart and a months-bedridden sister, with no aim or course. He sees her as someone who's far too alone. It hasn’t exactly been subtle, not since their argument about her being unmarried at twenty-four. In that argument she vowed to never love a man, and if any man henceforth dared to approach her with a ring, she’d fire a bullet through it.

It doesn’t help now that Dagda can’t locate his father-in-law’s revolver.

Marianne smiles again at him, this time encouragingly, trying in some way to relieve more of his worries. Seeing her confidence, and not what lies underneath, Dagda Warren smiles back.

Then he asks, “How are _you_ , Marianne?”

She puts on a show of widening her eyes, batting her lashes—a paragon of innocence—as she tells him that she’ll be better when Dawn is. That, when her sister is fine and on her feet, she’ll be right as rain again. It’s not technically a lie. Plus, she can’t pretend that she hasn’t been affected by the vampire incident, as that is too much of a stretch. She mentions nothing of her vigilante activities, which have ceased for the past two months. She mentions naught of her dizziness, or the ghost-like sensations at the base of her neck. Marianne easily sidesteps the topics, dodging them like bullets, even while he tries to stay.

When she sees the doubt in her father’s eyes, she places a hand on his elbow and squeezes. Earnestly looking at him, she insists, “I am _fine_ , father.”

Marianne does not succeed in abating his unease.

Dagda takes his daughter’s hands in his, clasping them tightly. His bright eyes are unblinking, and far more earnest than her own. “Marianne, I worry about you. You’ve been hiding so much from me, and I just wish—”

“ _Father_ ,” she interrupts. “I am _truly_ alright.” She puts as much emotion as she can into her words. So much so, that she almost believes it herself.

Almost.

He bites his lip. Nods. “Just promise me, Marianne,” he says, hands squeezing hers tenderly, “That you will not put yourself in any danger. That you will always return home _safe._ ”

Marianne tries to hide the guilt twisting her chest. She feels the lie bleed through her lips, remembering all the little wounds she's carried home and learned to hide; all the bandages Sunny learned to never speak about after catching her burning them blocks away from the manor. She remembers the feel of the cold alley cobblestone under her knees as she asked for his secrecy. She remembers all the weapons and vials that are stashed in nooks under her desk, or ‘neath her bed in unassuming chests. She remembers the vampire she's bound to by vows that she isn’t sure she regrets.  

Marianne almost falters as she whispers, “I promise, father. I promise.”

* * *

 

Idleness has never been her thing. It probably never will be. She sits on her bed, staring outwards past her window, disliking the stillness of her body. In this house there can be no pacing—everyone below her will hear her frantic footsteps burning circles into their ceilings, waking them from their current slumber. She won't dare rouse any of them, for fear of them storming up and seeing her in her hunting clothes halfway through their complaints.

The window in Marianne’s room doesn’t have a view of Bleakley, but there is certainly quite the view of Fayford. Buildings tower, glistening with windows gold with candlelight. The distant part of Fayford, peppered with lights, appears like stars sprinkled on the horizon. The entirety of the city is quiet, undisturbed, and ordinary, though immense and filled with its own characteristic treasures. Marianne remembers being younger and possessing an imagination that could not be appeased by the city alone, a childlike mind wondering why there isn’t just _more_ to it than there is. Fayford is known to be magical, so why is it so uncomplicated? She eventually got over it.

Despite being an avid daydreamer and risk-taker at eight years old, Marianne never sought danger. Never. What she now seeks is the thrill in danger; the freedom. The _guaranteed_ adventure _._ She used to be satisfied with the life in Fayford, with all its offerings being journeys in themselves, but now?

It isn’t enough. It simply just isn’t enough anymore.

She's already in her boots and coat before the grandfather clock in the hall strikes midnight, a cacophony of noise thundering through her bloodstream. A gun sits in the holster at her hip, and a slim dagger is tucked up her sleeve, where it almost always used to be. Slipping soundlessly out her window, she looks around the neighbourhood for stray souls, and is relieved to find none. Muscles burning with the lack of practice, she hops down from the low roof, rather than climbing down a suspicious tower of crates. The sparks that fire up her calves is a good pain. A familiar, and welcome one.

After a few moments of walking, she suddenly realizes she's searching for something. Something that is _not_ the freedom of being out at night. Marianne doesn’t know what she’s looking for exactly, but it certainly isn’t here. Not in her father’s mansion, and not in this quiet city. She's moving east before she knows it, feet tapping against stone.

Winding through streets she finds herself thinking; who is she, really? A mayor’s daughter, dutiful and rebellious? Or a huntress, an adventurer in her own home? She feels torn, uncertainty filling every decision she makes. And what does she _want_ from these nightly escapades? Will she ever find out? Crossing her arms, she hunches, confused and more lost than ever.

All she has left is her family and her friends—but what friends has she left, truly? Many of them left her after the Roland scandal, thinking her too cruel of a woman towards a man of such love and beauty. Some called her too inflated, and hypocritical. Yes, certainly Marianne has taken many lovers in her past, but _never_ during her relationship with Roland did she stray. Never was she dishonest, or disloyal to him.

But even her family looks at her differently, even worse than before. Both Dawn and her father—they don’t take her seriously. Always questioning her decision, always wondering why. They doubt her, because for some odd reason her words aren’t enough for them. They don’t understand why she’s changed. Thing is, she never did. They all grew so attached with lovestruck Marianne, the girl who did things that were no longer _odd_ , that they hadn’t realized that the _real_ her was the one free of loving him. The girl before Roland. And now, the girl after him.

What they all don’t get is that she poured out every drop of her heart, and Roland selfishly drank it all, leaving her nothing but a scar to fill the space. Now she’s heartbroken. Now, she loathes him and everything that reminds her of him.

Yet here she is, walking to the city that housed all his crimes.

Here she is, paying for the warden’s secrecy.

Here she is, passing through that rusted gate into the thriving nocturnal city of Bleakley.

It is simply so _alive_ here in a way that Fayford isn’t. She noticed it a little the first few times she was here, hunting and the like, but never did she stop to actually take it all in. During the day, and from a distance, Bleakley is shrouded in a thick fog. It's seen as a dreary, unwelcoming place to all Fayford dwellers, and easily wards off most. Yet, at night, it's simply a different sight, one that dangerously threatens Fayford’s dawn-till-dusk fever. Even Fayford’s night parties couldn’t match the honesty of the way this eastern district glows.

Bleakley is simply bursting with life. Laughter fills the air, carried by the salty wind from the sea. People walk through the streets unbidden, free, and clearly with business to attend to. On the night Marianne followed Roland here, this place only frightened her. Even now she feels apprehensive walking through the narrow roads. Suddenly she understands she's not truly welcome here; it's how she catches some people’s gazes, and the odd suspicion behind their eyes. Despite how much she wants to stay and admire the way things move in Bleakley, she lets her feet lead her quickly elsewhere, keeping her head down.

It doesn’t take her long until she finds herself drawn to the Bleakley church. It is modest in some ways, but grand in others. The stained glass windows depict godly figures peering at scriptures and clasped hands, beckoning the damned to seek some kind of retribution. With all the demons wandering unnoticed through Bleakley’s streets, she wonders how effective this chapel really is.

Marianne stares at it for a while, wondering if she's seeking some kind of forgiveness here. But there are several chapels in Fayford, so why seek some kind of tranquility here? She doesn’t know why, but she strides surely to the front doors and lets herself in.

The doors creak, dragging along the floor with a sound of distress. No candles glimmer from the distant altar, shrouding the entire building in near darkness. The only relief is from the light which streams from the moon, illuminating the pews and the disturbed dust on the tiled floor in an unearthly, milky glow. Marianne inhales and notices that the church smells somewhat musty, though there are hints of lingering incense drifting about. She sneezes before wiping at her nose, wondering if she’s going to catch a cold from this place. It’s much colder inside the church than it is outside.

After a moment she realizes she doesn’t really mind it; there has been a colder Bleakley.

Her footsteps echo throughout the building as she hugs the left aisle, announcing her presence to the ghostly room. No priest shows himself at the sound of her.

Not knowing what else to do, she sits down at a pew in the middle row. Leaning against the wood, letting her head fall back to stare at the ceiling above her, she lets out a deeply held sigh. Paintings she can barely make out on the curve of the ceiling distract her as she takes her time trying to study them. It isn’t long before a chill runs down her spine and she sits up, breath catching in her throat. _He’s here_.

“What have we here?” A familiar voice says, and Marianne doesn’t have to turn around to see him.

She swallows and nods, feeling her neck throb a little in remembrance of two fanged teeth. “Bog,” she acknowledges, and the vampire steps out of the dark corner, assembling into a lanky form from what seems to be black mist.

“Marianne,” he greets back, and a shiver rattles her bones. She doesn’t move as she watches him approach silently, propping himself on the back of the pew in front of her. He sits casually, watching her with interest in a sort of lazy way. “It hasn’t been a month yet. What brings you to my territory so early?”

Marianne stares at him, remembering their relaxed conversation from before. Had she been high off blood loss? Shouldn’t she still be hostile towards this creature that nearly killed her sister? But she feels no need to be awful towards him at the moment, _e_ _specially_ not after his consideration of a better meeting place for her own safety and health. Looking down at her fiddling fingers, she collects herself.

“I needed to take a walk,” she whispers, not really telling a lie.

Bog tilts his head. “And yet you sit.”

She grumbles before looking at him, finding no retort. She can't speak.

He asks, “What brings you here, Marianne? What brings you so far away from home?” And in his gaze is that odd warmth she’s seen before, something she thought she dreamed. It's something that confounds her, like he understands her. It leaves her a little breathless at the mere sight of it. At the sight of him, and the privacy of the church, Marianne finds her own lips parting, her words tentative. She decides she isn’t paying him back for the secrets he shared on the first feeding night. She's not making an exchange between the contract bound. It’s… It’s something else entirely.

“I don’t know, Bog. I—I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she says, almost exasperated as she gestures to the church. “I just couldn’t stay there. I couldn’t.” Marianne feels herself tense, unsure about what she's doing. Bog waits on her, feeling her try to articulate words. He doesn't rush her. Instead, he sits by her side, outside of her vision, his presence something almost akin to comfort. Now that the burden of his gaze is no longer on her, Marianne suddenly feels herself loosening. Her words shake as she speaks again.

“I miss it, you know. The hunt.” When she feels him look at her, she feels his sense of understanding. “Having a purpose, knowing I was doing something for someone I care about, and then for people who couldn't protect themselves—it was better than sitting around and waiting for some kind of miracle to happen at least. The hunt grew on me in ways that I can't shake off, and I’ve changed too much because of it to fit in the shoes I used to fill, if you know what I mean. Now all I do is live the life I thought I left behind. It just doesn’t _feel_ right anymore. The stagnancy, the secrecy—and all the promises I’ve made, but don’t intend to keep.

“My father asked me to be safe, to not endanger myself,” Marianne says, nearly laughing. “I promised him just a few days ago that I would. Yet here I am, sitting in an empty church with a vampire whom I’m contracted to give my blood. Before that, I took home wounds and scars that my father will never see or know, and yet I have the gall to make a promise to him I know I won’t keep—that I would _never_ have kept if he had asked it of me earlier, believe me. And I will _still_ meet you, Bog, every turn of the moon, to protect Dawn. I will _still_ walk the streets at night because that is what I wish to do, be it in Fayford, or Bleakley. I’ve been in danger so long now, I’m not sure that I can live anyway else—or even if I want to. My father’s heart would break if he knew. It’ll break _my_ heart if he knew. 

“Y’know, a few months ago I made a decision,” Marianne continued after some quiet, fiddling with the silver crucifix hanging from her neck. “My father did not approve of it, of course. He asked me, ‘Marianne, why do you wish to be alone?’ I said to him, ‘because I am _stronger_ alone. I don’t need some man to protect me.’”

“I don’t doubt it,” Bog chuckles, and Marianne allows a small smile, but she doesn’t feel it.

“And you know, he asked me then to look for someone. To find someone to be with. So, at the end of the day, I won’t only have myself to confide in.” Marianne almost rolls her eyes. “I told him it’s never going to happen. Never in my life.” Marianne drops the crucifix as if burned, remembering what had to be melted down to make it in the first place. Her smile falls completely. “But now I see that he asked it of me because he worries. He worries incessantly that I won’t watch out for myself; that I will never have someone else to cover the blind spots I possess, and ignore. He wants me to find someone to stand beside, someone who will ease the burdens I will inevitably carry one day. And yet, not two months ago, I wandered through Bleakley alleys risking my very soul just to find you.” She glances at Bog briefly. “And like my father fears, I hunted alone. Not once did I consider a partner. Not once did I think on his wishes. _Not_ _once_ did I consider what would happen if I never came home.

“Knowing that I’ve broken so many promises before I’ve even tried to keep them, there's no way I can stay in that house. I’ve already lied countless times to my father’s face—about where I’ve been during my nights, what I do during my days—and worse, I'm aware that he knows that everything that comes out of my mouth is another false tale. And he lets me lie. He _lets_ me.” Marianne hunches over, feeling a tightness in her chest. Her lungs are becoming hard to fill, but words still bubble up, overflowing, spilling dangerously from her cold lips.

“And he asks me everyday how Dawn is, and I have to pretend everything is fine. That Dawn isn’t haunted, only sick. I lie to him everyday about his own daughter, and there is no way on this Earth that I’ll be able to tell him that it’s all because of a vampire!” Even as she says this, Marianne doesn’t feel enough heat or anger towards Bog. In fact, there is someone else she blames almost as much. She continues, “As if he would believe me anyway. I can’t even tell him that—that _I’m_ also at fault for all this. I couldn’t protect her. I was too absorbed in my own problems, too busy erasing a bastard from my life to take notice of the fact she was changing. I took my eyes off of her for a second too long, and now—I’m her big sister and yet—” Her breath stutters.

_I failed her._

It takes her a few moments to realize she's holding back her breath, for fear of crying in front of Bog. Panicked, she asks herself why she's saying all this to him, of all people. Did she already forget what he did? Did she already forget what her blood was sold for?

When Bog starts speaking, Marianne finds herself listening, in an effort to turn away from herself.

Bog’s whisper is almost a breath, “You’re protecting her now, y’know. You’re doing more than anyone else can.”

Marianne closes her eyes, trying keep his words from burrowing into her heart, despite how much she wants to believe them. It doesn’t even matter that Bog is the one saying it to her—he’s the only one who knows what she’s doing here anyway. Even so, she won't allow herself the relief his words offer. She doesn’t deserve it.

Bog suddenly says, “I apologize.”

She scoffs. “For what?”

“For letting this happen to your family.” Marianne’s eyes shoot open. “For letting Dawn suffer, for allowing the circumstances where you have to lie and hide from your own father. I never thought about the extent this could affect you, and everyone you hold dear. I’m sorry, Marianne. For all of it.”

Surprised, she looks at him, brown eyes meeting gold. She searches for the lie, the snickering giveaway that he doesn’t mean a thing he says. There is no way a bloodthirsty vampire could apologize for such a horrid deed—wouldn’t they simply relish in it? Shouldn’t he be _laughing_ at her pain? But the lie Marianne is searching for isn’t there. Bog’s gaze is unwavering, neither asking for her forgiveness, or her belief. Just to be heard by her is enough. Just to be _known_ by her is enough.

This couldn't possibly be the vampire she met that night in the shack. She knows that it's the very same, but the difference is striking. Stranger, Marianne feels like there's no way this vampire before her is the same monster she saw in Dawn’s room. _But the smoky figure, the bloodthirst, the sheer presence—why did he take her offer if it isn’t him? Why apologize for a crime that isn’t his? Why apologize_ at all _?_ Marianne swallows, doubt swimming in her gut. It _has_ to be Bog. It has to be.

“Do you want me to forgive you?” She whispers, testing, already knowing his answer.

But then he smiles. A sad smile. It almost tears his dry lips, his carved skin pulled tight in gaunt cheeks. There's something about the sight of it that makes her still, despite the fact she's neither disgusted, or afraid.

“Marianne, I'm unworthy to ask that of you.” Then Bog stands, not giving her enough time to register the compassion behind his words. With the swipe of his hand he rids his coat of dust from the church pew, sending a puff into the air. Then he turns to her, extending an open palm. “You’re on a walk, are you not? I believe it's time that I show you around my kingdom, princess. The _real_ Bleakley.”

For a second she just stares at his hand. Long bony fingers, slightly curled in the air, await her response. Her eyes linger on the slender bone of his wrist, and the lines in his palm which are crossed with paler scars. Fine hairs peek from the cuff of his sleeve on the back of his hand, betraying that perhaps Bog’s natural hair colour is a shade of copper. Swallowing, Marianne raises her own hand and slides her small grip into his. His skin is cold and rough, taut over ancient flesh. But his fingers, as they curl around hers, brush gently over her knuckles in a way that sends something firing up her arm and into her stomach. Marianne feels something in herself ignite, but she bites her lip against it.

He’s trying to distract her from her worries. She isn’t sure if she should be irritated—she needs to face her problems somehow, deal with them, and then fix them. All she needs to do is think up a strategy and then act on it. But he's offering just a moment when she'll be free, where she can think of nothing else but the beauty of Bleakley.

Bog bows to her and asks, “May I?”

Marianne blinks. _May you what?_ Instead she hears herself saying, “Yes.”

Then Bog gives her a mischievous smile, tugging her towards him softly. Marianne lets out a little gasp as she stumbles into him, hand falling against his chest in search of some kind of balance. She blinks; there's something beneath her palm that is pounding—no, _racing_. But suddenly Bog is spinning her, other hand pressing softly into her stomach so her back falls against his front. Marianne freezes as she realizes just how broad his chest is right before he whispers an inch above her ear, “Hold on tight.”

  
  



	6. Love the Sinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has 2 illustrations. One at the beginning as a preview to what happens later, like a chapter illustration, and the other—well, you'll see if you haven't seen it on tumblr already xD It's a short chapter tho :) hopefully the next one's longer. I'll see what I can fit in for what I have in mind

Marianne pales, “what?” Hold on to _what?_

But then her feet are off the ground and Bog is bursting through the church doors with her in his arms. Cool wind tousles her dark hair as she watches the ground distance itself in a wide swoop that drops a weight into her gut. People outside gasp as they hear the bang of the chapel doors slamming open from within, but they don't see Marianne and Bog's shadow darting across the cobblestone. Shaken, the stragglers shuffle along, convinced of an encounter with ghosts or demons, though none look up to find two soaring right above them.

Marianne stares down at their oblivious forms from almost thirty feet in the air. _Up here_ , she thinks, urging them to turn their noses to the sky. Vision spinning, she bites her lip. _Up here is too high._

A sharp intake of breath fills her lungs as she goes rigid, “ _Oh, my God,_ ” she sputters. Bog laughs behind her as her hands crushes his fingers mercilessly.

He says, “I won’t drop you.” Marianne scoffs, not entirely reassured.

And they are flying over Bleakley, starry sky expanding above them as buildings zip by below. Lights become fireflies, flickering and moving in the streets. Crowds mill about like opposing streams clashing and coexisting, mingling into different veins of wanderers. Melodies float up from street musicians, singing ballads of woe, or rest, or of late-night celebration. There are places of quiet, corners of noise, and a street ablaze with life and pleasure. They circle a bit, letting Marianne fully comprehend the wonder surrounding her.

The initial fear passes and suddenly Marianne is laughing—albeit nervously—and relaxing into Bog’s chest. Still, her hands stay firm on Bog’s arms, a vice that remains unforgiving. Regardless, she willing to forget her anxiety, her concerns, and every burden she carries from Fayford. She’ll trade them all for the exhilaration of being boundless. She still can't believe the fact she's _flying_. Marianne barely notices her own feet dangling precariously in front of Bog’s toes.

“I thought we were supposed to be walking,” she yells over the wind, a smirk tugging at her lips as she looks over her shoulder.

“We will,” he responds, mischief in his smile.

Then they're falling slowly through the wind, feet landing briefly on a stony roof, before Bog leaps them into the air once more. When he tries to let go of her hand, Marianne feels fear rise up so quickly that she suffocates his palm in hers.

Bog doesn’t wince at how hard she’s squeezing the bones in his fingers. Instead, he says, “Trust me.” And when she finally, reluctantly lets go, his hand drops to where his other rests on her stomach. It slides a little, cupping her waist, supporting her with his immeasurable strength.

With her hands now free, Marianne splays her fingers, spreading her arms like wings. She swallows, unsure, but the cool wind caressing her skin calms her nerves. Suddenly she's laughing again, trembling from both nerves and excitement. She feels invincible.

“You want a walk?” Bog calls into the air, “Then I’ll give you one.” He takes one of her hands into one of his own, and loosens his grip on her body with the other.

Marianne’s stomach drops as she suddenly realizes she has no support, feeling gravity coax her feet downwards in small waves, knowing it will increase exponentially—but then Bog effortlessly shifts her to the side, until their hips are flush. Then he adjusts his hand on her waist, fastening her to himself. Now she's alongside him, feet hanging next to his over thin, fragile air. She stares at the plummeting drop below, people like ants walking in lines like threads.

Her voice is shaking as she threatens, “I’ll _kill_ you, Bog,” even though she can hear the smile in it.

“You’ve already tried,” he points out. “Now, walk.”

And they're in step with each other, bounding soundlessly over roofs. Marianne knows that Bog is doing most of the work, but for a tempting moment she believes she's flying  _without_ his help. Her fingers trail through the wind, feet mimicking strides beneath her. A drumming pounds through her ears, and it takes her a moment to realize it’s her own heartbeat.

“Look there.” Bog adjusts his grip on her waist so his arm wraps around her back and under her arm while his palm sits on her stomach. Loosening his grip on her hand he points as they soar through the sky unseen, “That’s Bleakley’s clocktower, Lady Glen.”

“Glen?” Marianne looks up at the vampire, eyebrows furrowing as she thinks back to a faint memory.

“The woman who designed it came from a valley up north. Her name isn’t known commonly, but she was called the lady of glen to all who knew her. I doubt you _haven’t_ heard of her.”

Marianne’s eyes widen as she makes the connection. “I’ve read about her! I wrote several essays on Fayford and the powerful women contributing to its foundations—the clocktower of Bleakley of course had a mention. Lady Glen—the _woman_ , not the tower—was one of the most educated women of her time. She designed two clocktowers, one which was built here in Bleakley before it was even Bleakley, and the other supposedly in Fayford. I’ve always wanted to see it myself, but I was forbidden from Bleakley, and couldn’t even see the Lady Glen’s sister in Fayford. They never did adopt her design in the west, and wound up using the plans of her cousin’s frivolous one instead. It’s a shame, really. Lady Glen was an architect eons ahead of her time.”

She's sure Bog knows all this already, and maybe more. Perhaps he was even alive to meet the famous Lady Glen herself—but Bog doesn’t stop her rambling. Instead, he listens, an approving smile on his face.

They land on a roof across the clocktower, allowing Marianne to see the structure in all its glory. Finally up close, she can see the fine details in the metal hands, like elegant, gilded arrowheads with long, fine necks, decorated with engravings mimicking twisting vines and flowers. The clock face is a deep black, gradually lightening to a bronze at its centre. Roman numerals made of crisp gold are spaced out evenly across the circumference, while bronze spears ring the clock face like sun rays, pointing inward to indicate the minutes, telling that it is twenty past one. The clock itself is perched within an arch of ebony marble, fine veins of gold peeking outward from the limestone. The mere picture of it is stunning.

Lady Glen stands tall, twisting into a fine peak far above Marianne’s head. Colourful stained glass stretches below the clock, glittering amber and rose and cyan. It takes her a moment to take it all in, speechless and breathless at the immensity.

 _This_ is Bleakley, she thinks to herself. This is the ‘supposed’ downtrodden sister of Fayford, existing just as its namesake.

She can't believe that lie anymore.

“Come on,” Bog says. Marianne emerges from her reverie, blinking out the dream from her eyes.

Before her is Bog’s outstretched hand, and this time she doesn’t hesitate to take it. They leap upwards to the enormous face of the clock, nearing its finer details in a single breath. Landing at the ledge right in front of the clockface, a few feet from the minute hand, Marianne can’t help but gape. This close to such a monumental structure—she can hardly _think_.

She doesn’t notice at first that Bog is watching her fluster at the grandeur of the clock up close. A curious look crosses his face as he considers her, gold eyes assessing her unabashedly. When she turns to him, he looks away as if caught in a crime, swallowing roughly as he fixes his posture. She doesn't know why he stopped—she didn't mind.

“How are you feeling?” He asks, a slight tremor in his voice. It’s barely audible.

Marianne cocks her head at him and then understands. A small smile spreads on her face as she stares at the carvings in the clock. “Better,” she says softly. Reaching out to touch the minute hand, she whispers, “Thank you, Bog."

She almost doesn’t hear his gentle, “It was no trouble at all.”

A silence falls over them, but it isn’t awkward. It’s comforting almost, knowing that she doesn’t have to say anything. She doesn’t have to prove herself, or lie. Bog might be the only being on this earth that knows the full extent of her secret, be it by her own mistake, or her own hope. In this undisturbed moment she almost forgets who and _what_ he is. And just the same, she doesn't care if she's the mayor's daughter or a huntress. She's just Marianne.

For just tonight she'll allow herself this.

Then she turns back to him, a sheepish smile on her face. Extending her own hand, she says, “Alright, Bog. Show me your kingdom.”

And the smile he shows her, chin dipping down a little while his eyes sparkle up at her, sends something fluttering into her stomach in a deliciously, dangerous way. She bites her lip, finding her gaze dropping to his shoes. Her face feels warm.

“Alright, princess,” Bog muses. When he takes her hand this time, he's sure. When he tugs Marianne to his side, she shows no resistance. She only lets out a soft sound of surprise when his grip adjusts, sitting at the curve of her hip rather than the base of her ribcage. Before they take off, Marianne is staring downwards, worrying at her bottom lip in deep thought. She can feel her hand sweating in Bog’s grip, and for a moment she contemplates letting go to wipe it on her coat.

“Are you afraid of heights?” Bog tilts his head, curious.

“You ask that only _now_? Why do you bring it up?” She's about to answer ‘no’ to his question anyhow when Bog’s next words make her freeze.

“Because your heart is racing, tough girl.”

Eyes widening, she looks up at him, jaw open.

“Don’t worry,” he says, crooked smile beneath bright eyes. “Like I said, I won’t drop you.”

And suddenly they're in the air. Marianne doesn’t have time to dwell on his words before she yelps, feeling their weight drop to the earth. They're falling the length of the tower, and Marianne feels a pull at the back of her mind that that turns her head.

In the stained glass behind them she can see her hair whipping about, framing her pale face. Bog’s broad back stretches next to her, hunched as he peers at the ground. She can almost see in the way that he holds himself that he's uncomfortable about something, as if recalling something he’s forgotten. She wonders if she imagines it.

Then she's momentarily distracted by the stained glass itself reflecting back at her, coloured panes depicting the image of an androgynous angel reaching for the heavens. The angel falls in haloes of gold, longing, eternal. The angel, from the way the wings curl, and the way the face stares upwards towards the sky, is falling from grace.

 _So sad… so_ , “Beautiful,” she whispers, brown eyes lingering.

Bog’s jaw is clenched. “Yes.” His feet slap against the glass then push off, projecting them forward. Marianne’s brows furrow as she turns away from their shrinking reflection, gaze falling on the tense way Bog’s cheeks pull back from a tight-lipped scowl.

He shows her more of Bleakley, from the most frightening, abandoned house, to the richest manor, decorated in wreaths of ivy. Bog’s spirit lifts the further they are from the clock—but _is_ it the clock that distracts him? Is it the _clock_ that unnerves him so? Walking beside him on the roofs, finally on solid ground, Marianne feels it just couldn’t be. He looks at Lady Glen with approval, with reverence.

It has to be something else.

Marianne hesitates, hands wringing each other as she strides behind Bog, only a step in difference. Steeling herself, she reaches out and turns Bog by his elbow. He spins reluctantly, but his expression reveals nothing to her, an attempt to sustain the good mood.

Marianne swallows, unsure about what she’s doing. “What’s wrong?” Her fingers slide down the length of his arm, taking the cold hand she’s held for hours. She knows the callous on his fingers and the roughness of his palm so well now as she slows his steps with a gentle tug, her index finger brushing against a scar. “What is it?”

Bog is silent, and Marianne feels suddenly unsure of herself. Her hands are shaking, and strangely she no longer understands her own intentions. What is she _doing?_

“Bog?” She tries again, softer this time, feeling her fingers loosening in doubt.

His expression contorts into one of pain, pinched tight in his pale face. The moon peeks through the clouds, shrouding Bog’s face further in shadow, almost hiding him from her. Torn, she feels like she's overstepping. _I am the huntress that hunted him. I’ve killed_ so _many of his own. So what if I’ve poured out my soul to him and he showed me the beauty of Bleakley? He certainly doesn't owe me_ any _answers._ She lets go of him, ashamed of herself.

He catches her fingers before they completely slip away, surprising her. He's shaking just as much as she is.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he starts, staring at their joined hands. “What decision was it that you had to make? The one your father disapproved of?”

Marianne gulps, her body warming almost invasively even though she’s shocked by his question. Maybe it’s his voice, or the way his eyes dart across the stone under their feet, but her lips move before she can think. “I was engaged,” she begins quietly, thinking of silver melting down. “But I cancelled it.” When he nods, understanding, she says in a voice so quiet she’s nearly muted by the wind. “He didn’t love me.”

Bog hesitates. “Did you love him?”

Marianne feels her heart breaking again, like it did months and months ago. It shatters in memory, an echo of so many wasted minutes believing in a lie. Images tumble through her mind, images that used to fill her days with light, and now only fill her with regret, disgust, and shame. Pangs ripple through her chest, and a lump forms in her throat so bitter that bile threatens to spill from her.

She forces it out regardless, “I did. Note the past tense.”

Bog laughs “I guess we are similar in some aspects.” His thumb runs over her knuckles, as if recalling a distant thought. “I loved once as well, a lifetime ago.”

They sit on the edge of the roof, feet hanging over a distant street. He doesn’t let go of her hand, and instead fits their grips palm to palm. Gold eyes stare off aimlessly as he continues speaking.

“She was beautiful beyond comprehension, beyond anything I’ve ever seen.” A trembling quality slowly takes his tone, betraying his nerves. “I could barely fathom it, the sight of her. Hands graceful at work, eyes attuned to the shadows, broad shouldered and ambitious and fearlessly monstrous—and afflicted with _painful_ mortality. Back then it didn’t bother me much. I wrote her letters, sent her gifts of varying kinds, all shots in the dark regarding her interests. I wooed her from a distance, of course to no avail.” Bog pauses, deep in thought, jaw working below narrowed eyes. When he starts again, Marianne knows he’s omitting things. “I made bad choices. I showed myself to her, against my better judgement. I was so desperate, Marianne. I just wanted her to _see_ me, as I was, with no letter, no bouquets, or decorated anonymous gifts. But the way she screamed at the mere _sight_ of me...” Bog slumps forward, fully obscuring his face from her. Stray, dark strands fall about his face, slick with sweat.

When he lifts his chin, his face is open to her, vulnerable in every aspect. The carved lines that trace from the inner corners of his eyes, to around his cheekbones, stretch at his fanged grimace. Gold eyes glimmer wet, gaunt cheeks pulled back from cracked lips. His skin, sickly in shade, glows in the moonlight.

His voice is viciously sharp, “I’m _hideous_ .” Turning away from her, Bog pulls his hand free from Marianne’s and tucks his shaking fists between his knees. “Because of a cursed face, ravaged by time, I... it took me no longer than a few seconds to know from her face alone that I was— _am_ —far too hideous to be loved. Not then, and never again.

“This appearance has given me such grief,” he continues. “Can’t stand the sight of it in a mirror, or a window, or even a pool of water. A glimpse enough sickens me.”

Marianne thinks back to the image of them in the clocktower glass, and how from every moment after Bog avoided windows and reflections, gaze always sure about where to be. This is his Bleakley; he knows every pane of glass, every street to avoid, every matter to consider to avoid the very vision of his own face.

Something swells in Marianne’s chest and she reaches for him again, like before. She stutters, “Bog—”

But he smacks her hand away, spinning to face her with bright eyes flashing. Anger seems to bubble from him, shame turning to a humiliated rage. He snaps, “I don’t need your _pity_ , princess!”

Marianne blinks, surprised at the stinging pain sizzling in her palm. She frowns, shoving him a distance away.

“Don’t you dare,” she jabs a harsh finger at him, rising to her knees on the ledge to meet his eyes. The words spill before she can think about it. “Of all the things I could feel for you, pity has never been an option. Did you pity me when I bared my soul to you? Did you see me as _weak?_ Spare me your pride, _Bog_. All I wanted to do was _tell_ you that I—”

Her knee slips off the edge of the roof. Eyes widening, she wobbles on her remaining balance, seeing the fall that awaits her at the corner of her eyes. Cobblestones, ivy, and cold mud will cushion her fall. Her breath hitches as she finally tips, the wind working against her, hand reaching out for—for what? Bog's too far away.

Marianne’s stomach drops and for a moment she imagines all of the possible outcomes; a concussion, a broken bone, a broken body. Then a broken promise, her father weeping over another brown haired woman dead in his household. Then she sees blood, pooling around her deliciously under the moon's hungry eye. To Fayford, she’ll be a wayward tragedy. To the vampire in front of her, a burden disposed of. She sees a home empty of her, Dawn once again at risk. No more lies to make. No more chances to fix mistakes.

No more anything.

For some reason she doesn’t call out Bog’s name. She just watches him as she falls, stone in her throat, her arm starting to pull back.

He catches her right as she thinks he won’t. Long fingers wrap around her outstretched arm, sliding up to her wrist before squeezing tightly to halt her descent. Marianne swings, stopped midair, knee scraping against the stone wall in front of her while the other bangs against the window. Someone inside wakes up, disturbed, as Marianne hisses, other palm rubbed raw and her shoulder throbbing with impact. Breaths come fast and hard as she squeezes Bog back, feeling his strength pull her up faster than she's expecting.

Marianne is momentarily suspended midair, a surreal disbelief filling her mind as she lands gently in Bog’s lap, eyes like saucers.

He studies her face, eyes flickering across her expression, checking for scratches and bruises. Then he whispers, “I told you I wouldn’t drop you.” She collapses into his shoulder and clings to him, exhausted relief making her slump in his arms. For a moment she forgets she yelled at him, clutching him like there is nothing else to hold her up—which is true, in a sense.

“Did you hear that?” Someone below them says.

“Hear what?” Another voice replies.

Bog lifts Marianne in his arms, carrying her like a child, and steps away from the window. Letting her down—Marianne trying not to protest, still awash in jitters—they listen as the residents below unlatch and lift the window frame, cursing to themselves as they search for their trespassers.

“It was probably a bird confused, dear. Or a bat,” the second voice yawns. “Come back to bed, love. I already miss you.”

The first person mutters before reluctantly closing the window, leaving the two on the roof in silence.

Marianne lets out the breath she's holding, hand against her chest as sweat trickles from her brow. Letting go of Bog, she focuses on keeping her gaze on anything but him. She avoids the tear on her knee, which is splotchy with blood, as she wipes her damp palms on her pants.

The two of them stand like stone for a long time, Marianne recuperating with every passing second. When she finally looks up at him, expression unreadable, he's standing stiffly.

He looks away. “Why did I save you, you ask? I don’t know. Can’t have you bleeding all over my streets as a Fayford girl, no less the daughter of the Fayford mayor. Bleakley will have a raid on its hands before your funeral can be planned, and we’d have a war that no one really—”

“A war just because of a girl?” Marianne interrupts.

Bog looks back at her, hearing the gentle tone in her voice. A smile hesitates on his face, “Would your father do any less?”

Marianne chuckles. “Never.”

They stand again in silence. Then, “I’m sorry for lashing out at you when all you gave me was your ear. It was very immature of me—”

“You’re not hideous,” Marianne interjects firmly. She's holding his gaze, which wavers under the conviction of her own.

He swallows. “I could debate for years if you had the time, but—”

“You’re _not_ .” When he looks away from her, she steps into him, catching his glowing eyes again. “Bog, believe me when I say it; you aren't hideous. Fearsome, otherworldly, something mortality cannot comprehend perhaps, but not hideous—not in _any_ sense of the word.” She emphasizes every sentence with a finger in his chest. When she finishes, she feels suddenly drained of confidence. Glancing away, she steps away and hides her hands behind her back. She feels suddenly out of place. “I’m sorry for pushing you.”

Silence. Then, “Don’t we seem to be made of apologies this evening?” Bog smiles down at her. Marianne looks up and finds herself laughing a little, relaxing quite a bit. She doesn’t know if he agrees with her, or if he listened, but he definitely did _hear_ her. He heard every word. Now he’ll carry every sentence with him from this very moment onwards.

She hopes he’ll come to believe it, just as she has.

Then Bog turns to stare over his shoulder, brows furrowing. He seems to be deciphering something when Marianne notices it, too. The sky is lightening.

Sighing, he turns back to her and says, “It will be dawn soon.”

And suddenly Marianne is tired, the whole night’s endeavours catching up to her and wearing her out. The pain in her knee, and her scraped palm, come back with a vengeance, and she winces a little. She can feel bruises forming on her shoulder, an irritating throb she can't seem to shake. Eyes now itching to close, she yawns, “I guess so.”

Bog steps into her and wraps an arm around her shoulders. “Let me take you home.”

And he lifts her, effortlessly, and carries her in his arms half-curled. She's thankful, staring at her torn pants with a frown. Her other knee throbs and she wonders how big the bruise will be.

They fly wordlessly through the sky, Bog searching the rooftops as they cross the border between Bleakley and Fayford. It’s almost alarming, the difference between the two, even from Fayford’s poorest sector. Organization flows into the streets, no houses crooked or misaligned to give the roads jagged shapes. The buildings begin to twin the bigger they get, until eventually some are almost blatant duplicates. If not for their colouring and decoration choices they'd be hard to differentiate. Lights in houses glow dimly at the sight of dawn, but still there’s no sign of busy activity in the wide streets of Marianne’s neighbourhood. It seems untouched, sleeping soundlessly, undisturbed.

Marianne realizes she misses it a little, the serenity of night in Fayford in comparison to the bustle of Bleakley. She guesses there’s beauty in both that can only be appreciated when you know enough of either.

When they near her manor she knows not to point it out. The closer they get the more she's reminded of who Bog is, and what he’s done. She tries to force her mind from it, the reason for their contract, but it lingers cruelly in the back of her brain. It frustrates her beyond belief to be reminded, like a bitter aftertaste to the sweetness of this night.

The moment they arrive she has to point out her window, and so Bog lowers them until he’s standing on the lower overhanging roof, peering into the darkness of her room. It looks just as she left it.

Marianne winces as she tries to straighten her legs, squeezing Bog’s shoulder to let her down. He shakes his head at her.

“Invite me in,” he says. “The way you look, I don’t think you can stand.”

Marianne gazes up at him and tries to read his face, but can’t see anything for certain. She’s too tired at this point to care, not even to ask him why he needs to be invited _again—_ after Dawn—so her head falls lazily against his shoulder and she pushes softly against the window. It swings inward a crack.

“Come in,” she breathes into the crook of his neck, barely registering the tremor coursing through him. Bog steps in soundlessly, crossing unharmed over the threshold to her room. He strides to her canopied bed, stepping carefully in unknown territory.

Sitting her on the edge, he takes her coat and boots off with gentle fingertips that don't dare to linger. He ties a handkerchief he pulls from his pocket around her knee—to prevent her blood from staining the blankets—after cleaning it with a cloth dipped in a basin on her vanity, set out by early waking servants for Marianne to wash her face. By now they’ve all adjusted to her early hours anyway. In the morning later, when they're all well awake and in the comfort of the kitchens, they’ll gossip about her overnight absence. She doesn’t care; whatever they’ll guess will be wrong anyway.

Marianne sleepily makes a joke about Bog licking her wound to save him the trouble of the bandage. She doesn’t see, or hear his reaction, and doesn't really think to look for it either. When he lays her down and adjusts the heavy covers, essentially tucking her in as if she never left Fayford to confess her sins or to fly with him in the first place, she feels the first wave of drowsiness weigh on her. In the haze of a beginning dream, everything begins to meld into a single mental fog, and Marianne isn't sure if they _did_ confess their secrets to each other at all. She isn't sure if she held his hand, or if he held her close, but the sensations linger on her. It’s almost jarring really, how the night is already over despite how she can feel it so intimately in her veins. Yet, when he moves to go, Marianne fears that the night never happened and reaches for his hand. Her grip is weak, but her fingers lace through his, catching him.

“I know it might not mean much at all, especially coming from me and who we are, but I wasn’t lying earlier,” she breathes, watching him turn those lovely golden eyes to face her. The pendant he hangs around his neck tumbles out, a glimmering amber stone coiled in brass wire. It mystifies her for a second before she looks back at him. Bog searches her drowsy gaze, and she hopes he finds truth. Her truth. And hopefully, one day, his.

“You aren’t hideous, Bog.”

Not in any sense of the word.

  
  



	7. Sober

Bog sits on the slanted roof of the Avery-Warren manor, feet propped against the lip, gold eyes watching the streets. His hand passes over his face, pulling at his stubbled chin as he keeps his head from twisting to where he knows a certain brown-haired huntress is sleeping. The strain in his neck is evidence of this—tomorrow is the day he feeds, and it’s becoming apparent in the impatient way he lets his gaze linger on her patch of roof. Temptation is a cruel thing, but it’s something he’s learned to ignore and restrain over the centuries.

For some reason it’s just very difficult right now.

Positioned above Dawn’s window, Bog waits for the return of a certain trespassing vampire. For countless nights he sits, warding off any approach of otherworldly kind—not without spurring suspicion, of course.

A few nights ago Stuff asked him, “Why do you keep vigil at that place?” Even though her beady eyes were turned downward, it felt like she, and several others, were staring into him.

Bog had bristled at her voice and the accusation beneath her words. “It’s none of your concern.”

It would be better for him to have said that he was waiting for their invader. In fact, he was protecting them all by fulfilling his side of the bargain. Not only that, he was also keeping an eye on the huntress to make sure she kept her word about leaving his coven alone. However, none of these ideas came to him on time. As a result he now remains doubted by his subordinates, even when he tries to right their opinions with his stern gaze.

Irritated at the memory, Bog’s brows cinch tightly. Leaning back, he stares upwards at the sky, a cloudless expanse slowly crawling along as the seconds tick away. Every night, just like this, he bides his time. He _is_ waiting for the trespassing vampire to come back, that’s the truth. He’s been waiting since he agreed to a pact with Marianne Avery-Warren, ensuring that no being—with soul, or without—can attack Dawn. In doing so, there should be no reason to suspect that he _isn’t_ the vampire who terrorized this household all those months ago. If Dawn remains unharmed, it will be as if Bog is keeping his word in not hunting her—which he is, technically.

Even so, it gets tiresome. Although he has infinity in his pocket, that doesn’t mean he can’t get bored with the simple passing of short weeks. Nowadays he feels like a gargoyle, perched and frozen, always waiting, always protecting. He hasn’t hunted in what feels like forever, and it’s becoming an ache to his bones.

Bog misses the hunt desperately. He has a list of people to kill, of meals planned months beforehand, all laid out to keep his immortal life—and stable lifestyle—ongoing. Centuries of experience applied to minimize the risk and damage of existing in a world where he is no longer welcome, are all coming to what seems to be a waste. Now all he does is watch over the mayor’s house, protecting one specific individual from the attentions of his own kind.

When did his life become so bizarre?

Regardless, while Bog is here, sitting right above her head, Dawn will remain undeniably safe. He’ll be here as long as he needs to be, even if he longs to be elsewhere.

Once however, during these long months, he left distractedly from his post. It happened weeks ago on a night he surely won’t ever forget. Still unsure if he regrets the events that transpired that evening, he continues to be dogged by the vivid memories replaying in his mind. He wonders if he would’ve made different choices.

Staring down from the manor roof those weeks ago, bored beyond believability, Bog didn’t expect to see the older Avery-Warren daughter sneaking out of her room. Bog had stared in wonder at her quiet and precise escape, shaking himself from his trance in order to follow her and see where she was going.

He didn’t expect her to go all the way to Bleakley, or to trespass into the abandoned church. He didn’t expect her expression: painful and weary, burdened with something weighing on her mind. It irked him to see this vulnerability, something so different compared to what she showed him. Removing himself from his perch against the ceiling, Bog decided to interrupt her thoughts with a, “What have we here?”

To see the change in her entire demeanor at his entrance was interesting enough, but to see that she wasn’t exactly _bothered_ by it was another thing. In some ways, he was offended, wishing that she would at least show some discomfort, especially considering who she thought he was. So, he asked her why she was there in his kingdom, mostly because he couldn’t help but be curious— _concerned_ would’ve been too strong a word in this case. The last thing he expected her to do in response was part her lips and bare her soul. The last thing he expected her to do was unwittingly expose herself to him as anything but a huntress, his sworn enemy.

When she spoke, it hurt, in some bizarrely mundane and disgusting way. It hurt him in a way he couldn’t stand (upon reflection, he realized it to be sympathy, a thing he never thought himself capable of feeling). In an effort to gain respite, he stuck out his hand and liberated them both. He flew, and showed her how, ignoring the hysteria that must’ve compelled him to have her so close to him in the first place.

The feeling of her body against his was like a blaze, burning hot against his cold skin. It was constantly there, the sensation of heat, incapable of being ignored. Her heartbeat racing, Marianne clung to him without a second thought for who, or what, he was. When he realized she'd forgotten the weapons on her person, and wasn’t threatening him with them, he was overwhelmed with confusion. _Does she not recall what I am?_

With every passing second he waited for things to change, for things to go back to how they were supposed to be with him as a hunter, and she his huntress. He anticipated her fury at their proximity, at the way he held her to him in a way he could’ve probably done any other way (even though it didn’t become apparent to him then). But it never did.

Instead she laughed.

Then when he watched her ogle the glory of Lady Glen, bright-eyed and mystified, he felt something stirring in his chest that threatened to break him. _No_ , he thought at the time, trying not to recognize it for what it was. He couldn’t _possibly_ be enchanted by her, not today, and not for an eternity.

Yet, with her in his arms, and his reflection behind him, he started to feel sick in a human way. Flooding into him was a dirty nausea that sat in his stomach, a twisting thing he wanted to recoil from. Bog knew Marianne was beautiful—perhaps not in the way he often likes, but it’s true—and then next to him, _compared_ to him…

He tried not to grind his teeth when he looked away from her; he tried not to remind himself of the tortures he put himself through centuries ago. All those pitiful letters and carefully picked bouquets, all to be met with humiliation and failure due to his own face; due to her fear. If he was not already a companion of death, he’d have wished for that promised, sweet release. He’d wish for it now.

But then Marianne took his arm and asked him what was wrong. He felt his control slip away, as if dragged from him at the heel to a far off place he could not see. There was a moment when he retained the mood, the light-hearted atmosphere they worked so hard to build in those couple hours. And then when he saw her eyes, a gold unlike his own, like honey or tea, he knew he was lost. When she moved from him, unsure of herself, he took her hand to keep her there. To feel the heat of her against the chill of his own skin was so unbelievably grounding, so unbelievably _other_ , that he found himself again.

So he talked, wondering if he was struggling just as she did not too long ago when she bared her heart to him, even though he wasn’t telling her the whole truth about what lengths he took to declare his love. Then he made a mistake, brushing away her empathy with his own pettiness. He had been so overcome by shame at confessing his own humiliation, that his anger towards himself exploded outwards, something he immediately regretted.

To see her struck by his quick dismissal shook him to the core. Her voice, raised at him not in hostility, but hurt, surprised him. To see her slip from the roof ledge in her carelessness steeled him. Before he knew it he was reaching, holding, saving, and she was flushed to him again, safe and unharmed despite a few scratches. Her breath, a shuddering relief, warmed his cheeks in that unforeseen instant and he immediately froze.

She was something so unbelievably _other_.

Thank God she was alright.

Then she told him he wasn’t hideous. Bog joked at the time, trying to change the subject, to distract her, but she was adamant, even though he didn’t believe her.

But before anything else could happen, he felt it like a scratching at the back of his mind; the sun was rising.

Before he knew it, he was holding her again, taking her to her manor. When she said, “Come in,” his body shivered with the invitation, like a breeze down his spine. The bindings of the house lifted and he was free to enter, but still he had been wary. The first room he entered in the Avery-Warren manor was the huntress’ room, and in knowing this he was tense.

 _This is the house she believes me to have trespassed_ , he thought to himself. Quickly surveying the room, he sat Marianne down, ignoring the way her sleepiness softened the way she looked at him. Ignoring how he wanted to meet her gaze, to see if she smiled. He cleansed her knee, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and ignored her joke about him licking it. He tried not to consider actually _doing_ it—because it was ridiculous—then tucked her in and hastened to leave.

But her fingers, so small in comparison to his own, laced through his before he was too far from her reach. They curled and stilled him, anchoring him there.

“I know it might not mean much at all, especially coming from me and who we are, but I wasn’t lying earlier.” The sound of her voice whispering to him, unguarded in her bedroom and husked with sleep, forced him to shut his eyes. Her sound washed over him, like cool water. “You aren’t hideous, Bog.”

Then her hand fell away and she was embraced by sleep. For a while he just stood there, angry and confused at himself.

Why did he give her this night? He gave her his time, his words, his ear, and yet he didn’t feel entirely amused or mischievous, as if recovering from a game he played with her. He didn’t even feel regret.

Then he realized then, with a sick dread, that he didn’t do any of this in selfishness. Sure, at first he intended to lift her spirits to erase the irritating gloom about her, simply because it infuriated him. At first he was only seeking respite from the dark feeling her sorrow inflicted upon him, but in the end he forgot all about that the moment she first laughed. In fact, he didn’t do any of it—the trip to Lady Glen, the walking in midair, the listening to her woes—for his own comfort at all.

The truth of it, the true answer to why he gave her that night, still doesn’t easily take with him. He won’t heed it even now. So what if they spent _one_ night together? _Nothing_ happened. It was _harmless_.

So for weeks afterwards they make absolutely no contact. Marianne never leaves her room in the nights, and Bog never makes his presence known. This is how their contract _should_ be: distant, and entirely separate ordeals. Other than those nights once a month when she bares her neck and he drinks from her, they shouldn't be interacting at all. Furthermore, Marianne must always remember what he’s allegedly done, and Bog must only think of her as a means to an end.

The idea that there could be more is appalling. The idea that he contemplated it, for all about two irresponsible seconds, disturbs him still. He cannot deny he _did_ consider it, and that, in itself, is a problem.

So the next feeding night when he lands silently outside Marianne’s window for his monthly feeding, he wills her to notice him. He doesn’t exactly want to announce himself like an eager pup, even though he’s tempted to knock right now.

At first she doesn’t even realize he’s there, sitting quietly at her vanity while fully engrossed in crinkled letters that sit in her hands. A little worry wedges itself between her brows as she squints at the scrawl of ink across the pages, oblivious to his presence at her window. Her lips disappear under her teeth as she sighs through her nose, and her entire nightgown, pearly as the moon, shifts on her body, exposing the nape of her neck.

Bog raps on the window and Marianne basically jumps out of her seat, letters falling away from her hands and drifting like feathers to her feet. Wide-eyed, she spins and stares at his dark form, shadowing her room. He hears her heartbeat pick up a pace, a tremor tickling the soles of his feet.

Slowly, so slowly, she opens the windows for him. For a moment they just stare at each other, the first time in weeks. Three feet apart, silent, scrutinizing, and noticeably wary, they consider each other, mutually unsure how to proceed. During all this Bog reluctantly notices that in the light of the moon, and in the comfort of her own home, she is an entirely different kind of beautiful than what he’s used to. It’s almost disarming.

Marianne clears her throat, stealing him from his thoughts. “Do you need to be invited in again?”

He is stepping over her threshold before he can even finish saying, “No.”

The windows close behind him and the night breeze is sucked away. Her room, even without a fire in the hearth, is unbelievably warm. Still, Bog shivers; the second time he’s been in this room and all he wants to do is leave immediately. He doesn’t note any details, anything personal or otherwise, and focuses his gaze on the shadows in the corners of the room. To know more irrelevant things about her would be dangerous, he realizes.

He cannot forget why he’s here either, as such would be foolish, so Bog lifts his chin and reminds them both, “Your sister?”

Marianne is picking up her letters and folding them neatly on her vanity when she hears him, suddenly stilling at his words. Just like that, he’s set the tone.

Busying herself as she tidies the loose parchment and ink bottles into a neat pile, she clears her throat and says, “She’s well enough to go out walking on her own, but she has a curfew. Her best friend, Sunny, barely leaves her side for fear of something bad happening to her again. I’m thankful for it, even though I know nothing will happen to her now. I trust in him to tell me if anything changes, but otherwise she’s almost back to how she was. Her fevers have passed.”

“Ah, good.” Bog stares at Marianne’s floor, then her ceiling. Might as well get it over with. “How will you have me?”

He senses her fidgeting next to the bed, “Well, how would you prefer?” She asks, voice deep and uncertain.

“It’s up to you, Marianne.”

It’s quiet for a second before she passes in front of him, carrying the chair from her vanity and setting it down facing the foot of her bed. It’s all very rushed, a little clumsy, but he doesn’t note it, watching the way she worries at her bottom lip instead. It’s all a little distracting.

“Here,” she says, sitting herself down on her mattress and indicating the chair in front of her. “Here is fine.”

Bog doesn’t forget for a second he decided to do this at her house instead of the manor on the hill because he was considering her wellbeing. Pity blinded him, and now something else is smothering him. He’ll reprimand himself later, find some way to strengthen his weakening fortress, but for now he has to focus.

So as leisurely—and as _normally_ —as possible, he sits down, flapping out his coat for effect while keeping a neutral, distant expression. Trying not to notice how his knees cage hers, and how closely the chair is in proximity with her bed, he turns to watch her face.

A mistake.

Marianne is watching him carefully, bright eyes flicking across his face even though she maintains a blank expression. For a second it startles him. _Why_ she’s looking at him like that he doesn’t know, and doesn’t want to know, so stiffly he asks, “Shall we get it over with?”

She blinks, straightening while whispering, “Yes.”

“It will hurt, perhaps just as much as before.”

“I know.”

“Shall we go over the terms?”

“No. I know them.”

Then she unlaces the very top of her nightgown, just enough so she can pull the collar over her shoulder. Bog tries not to watch her as she does it, so instead he stares at his hands, braced against his knees.

“Alright,” Marianne signals, and avoiding her curious eyes, Bog leans forward. She meets him halfway, hands fisted in her nightgown in anticipation as Bog begins to reach forward. When she does not flinch away from him, he places a thumb against her chin and his fingers along her throat, tilting her head so her neck is exposed to him. Her pulse violently pushes against the pads of his fingers, an intoxicating rhythm that awaits him. Bog clears his throat as his fangs unfurl.

They pierce.

Marianne winces, and Bog doesn’t try to dig into her memories this time. He's attentive despite his heavy thirst, relishing the taste of her blood on his tongue as he laps at her throat. His hand almost falls away, merely grazing the curve of her neck as his thumb slides behind her ear. He’s hesitant to hold her, palm brushing against the warmth of her pulse. In his grip she shivers, unraveling as his pinky drags distractedly down her nape, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. Shaking off his uncertainty, he unknowingly discovers where he fits her best.

When she’s shaking again, be it from the cold of his skin or from the pain, Bog focuses on her sensations, careful at every swallow, watchful of every reaction. His hand glides upward, disappearing into her short hair as he gently cradles her head. Angling his mouth more comfortably, he feels her relax against him, shoulders slumping.

He finds it difficult to be so present, so focused on her comfort, especially since she’s sweet— _God_ —sweeter than anything he’s ever tasted in this life. Before he knows it, a groan rumbles through him and vibrates against her skin, something he does not intend. When Marianne feels it pass through her, she trembles, lip disappearing between her teeth as she suppresses something deep in her chest.

He gulps, fingers playing with the ends of her hair, feeling them tickle against his palm. Unable to control himself, he sinks deeper into her, coaxing a stuttered gasp from her worrying lips. Bog suddenly feels like he’s burning, an unearthly warmth flowing into him and stretching to the top of his head and to the tips of his toes as her blood flows into him. Against his better sense, he makes a sound of appreciation, a soft, “Mmm,” that Marianne flutters at. She lifts a hand to her mouth, fingers pressed tightly to her lips as she resists a response.

Practically intoxicated and wanting desperately to hear it, Bog’s other hand reaches forward, pulling her to him at her waist. She arches her back to him, a soft whimper escaping her so quietly that he’s glad at their proximity. He smirks despite himself, hand at her waist slipping to the curve of her hip where his thumb presses softly into her flesh. Her breath catches, shivering again for different reasons.

“Bog,” she whispers. She echoes again, “ _Bog_.”

He lifts himself from her throat, absentmindedly licking his lips as he watches her from the corner of his eye. The thumb at her hip drunkenly rubs circles into her waist, unbeknownst to him. “Yes?”

Marianne reddens, eyelashes flush against her cheeks. She swallows, “I’m sorry, I… Are you done?”

“Not quite yet. Do you need me to stop?”

Straightening, she shakes her head, “No, I just…” Then, laughing a little, “It’s just that you sound like you’re enjoying yourself,” she says, leaning into his hand so she can get a better look at his face.

“I hope that doesn’t bother you,” he laughs, unsure how to respond. “I assume it’s part of my nature.”

Marianne snorts, rolling her eyes. “I just find it somewhat amusing. I feel like a treat,” she finishes, face pinching even though she is snickering to herself at the bizarreness of it.

Bog smiles into her neck, whispering a half-lie as his nose grazes her jaw in his stupor, “Willing blood is the sweetest kind, you know.” Then they laugh together, a sound he thought he’d never hear like this. It suddenly feels like the night they bared their souls—he’s so comfortable around her it’s almost frightening. Before he dips into her again, he asks, “Are you alright?” _With me continuing?_ He finishes in his thoughts.

Her honey eyes meet his. For a breath Marianne says nothing. Then, breathlessly, “Yes. I am.” She bites her lip against her infectious smile, still laughing softly as her gaze flicks between eyes he knows now are probably blue.

Surely Bog is now some kind of drunk because he smiles back at her, ignoring the fact that he probably shouldn’t. Leaning forward again, teeth resheathing themselves in her throat, he immerses himself in the taste of her just as she giggles softly at the absurdity they allowed themselves to relish in.

It’s not entirely the taste of her that makes him relieved to be drinking from her again—though he will not deny it is one of the reasons he's so eager—but it’s also the permission she gives him to do it. He's not taking what she is not giving.

And in realizing this, there is some kind of relief.

The next thing Bog knows, Marianne’s fingers are splayed against his chest, nails dragging upwards until they are tangled in his collar. He follows their path diligently with his mind, eyes closed as she burns a path on his skin. Then her lip pops and she sighs, breath and voice sending fire spinning into his gut. Tugging him closer, her wandering hand circles his neck and dips into his collar, pinky disappearing underneath his coat. A light moan trembles through her throat and he can feel it against his lips, like a beast begging to be freed.

As if drowning in her, he lifts his mouth to take a breath—he didn’t know he needed to until then—and gasps softly. Groaning again, he sinks back into her, hand pulling itself free from her soft hair. It glides around her throat until he smooths it out at the base of her neck, feeling the valley of her skin under the span of his fingers. The heel of his hand feels the quivering rise and fall of her chest, a teasing brush of her collarbone against his palm. Then as his hand travels downwards, to sit on the flat of her breastbone, Marianne’s heart pounds against his grasp like a secret begging to be known, a greedy little noise Bog wants to indulge.

When Marianne’s rogue hand drags upward, into his hair, he feels faint. Despite her warmth, her fingertips are biting cold, futile to ignore against the scorch marks she leaves behind.

When he gulps, the catch of her breath in her throat doesn't go unnoticed, nor does the melodic whimper shuddering past his ear. Bog feels so overwhelmed of her—taste, aroma, heat, and even her words and her laughter—it almost feels too much. He’s almost forgotten how it's _supposed_ to be: separate, impersonal ordeals. His hand, filled with her heartbeat, freezes where it is.

It’s suddenly so different, this feeding. So different from the last one. They no longer feel like predator and prey, like hunter and hunted, and it scares him in a way he doesn’t expect. That night, weeks ago, when they walked through the sky and confessed their darkest fears, was the night they were ruined.

Bog’s fangs release her. One quick lick of the last remnants of her blood seals the wound, and he sits straight, wiping his tightened lips. A few crimson droplets smear Marianne’s pearl nightgown—from when he came up for breath—but she doesn’t notice, and he doesn’t point it out. He ignores the stray tear on her cheek from her initial pain, tucking his hands into his lap just as Marianne swipes at her face and sits on her shaking fingers. They are both breathing deeply, dazed as they stare at anything but each other.

Dear God does he want to look at her, to see the mark he left on her. He wants so dearly to see her breathless, to see her hair tousled from his wandering fingers.

He wants to know if she’s just as beautiful as he expects her to be.

But just like that, whatever they had when his lips were pressed to her neck is gone. Their soft words and their laughter are like a passing dream, surreal and unknowable; untouchable. The heat of every contact has now cooled, any remaining sensation a mere ghost.

Marianne flushes despite the blood loss, absentmindedly palming her neck. Swaying, she swallows nervously. “That wasn’t so bad.”

Bog swallows, gaze dropping to her chin as he whispers flatly, “I made sure of it.”

“It—it felt _good_.” Her wondrous confession surprises the both of them.

“I…” Bog swallows, eyes widening as he listens to Marianne’s bated breath. He can still hear her feverish heartbeat in the air around him, but still can’t bring himself to look at her. “That was…”

Standing straight, reluctant to finish his thought, he checks one more time for a wound on the valley of her neck, then leaves. Trying desperately not to linger there, in this dangerously susceptible atmosphere, he nearly trips in his efforts. When Marianne doesn’t protest his leaving, he feels something akin to disappointment and relief, although in his haste he is unable to decipher which it is. It’s unspoken between them that they know, and understand, that they can't do anything more than what they agreed to. Anything between them now must be purely business.

Pausing at her window, hands braced against the frame, he says, “Till next time, Marianne.”

It’s for the best.

Yet, in the moment they were connected by her blood, it was almost as if anything was possible. As if the world _wasn’t_ watching them, scrutinizing every gesture. It was like no one cared about who Bog and Marianne were as long as they fulfilled what they promised to do in their contract.

Like they weren’t going to be stopped.

A shaky breath escapes Bog’s lips as he stands distracted on Marianne’s roof. His hand, which is tucked deeply into his pocket, is haunted by the ghostly prickling of her hair against his palm. The back of his neck itches where her hand caressed him, and his ears burn with every memory of her voice, and his own traitorous lips— _God_ , his lips. Without thinking, he licks them, chastising himself immediately at the embarrassing action. They tingle cruelly with every moan that quivered from her neck. His own throat sears from shame, recalling all the groans that escaped his own treacherous mouth at the feel and taste of her.

Closing his eyes, he reprimands himself. He rubs his face viciously, trying to rid himself of the lingering sensations of Marianne Avery-Warren on his skin. Growling, he swipes at his mouth, furious and disbelieving at his own foolishness. The warmth of her is enveloping him, intoxicating him, _ruining_ him.

And God does he want more.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy *does a little jig* It's finally done! Hope y'all didn't forget about that thing in the summary about them drawing invisible lines *sweats* meaning it'll be a while I guess before anything like this happens again??? I don't have any drafts after this, but I hella have plans. From here on out there will be slightly more plot. For example, what was on the letters Marianne was reading? Hmm...
> 
> Sorry there's no illustration for this chapter! I tried to get one done but I couldn't really figure out what (but like, look at all this potential material right? Right, I got you. I got you xD Didn't have much time though, and university's been overtaking my life). If I can think of one, I'll post it in the next chapter :P
> 
> Happy late Halloween guys!


	8. Wax And Wane

Marianne stares at the unfolded parchment of the unsigned letter on her desk. The message repeats itself in her mind, a whisper of something darker beneath the ink. Clutching her silver crucifix in her other hand, the warm metal biting mercilessly into her skin, she desperately tries to cool her flushed cheeks. Despite the nature of the message, she’s very much distracted by something else.

Not months ago she made a promise to herself in an alley to never feel anything close to romantic for someone else ever again. But remembering last night—with the burn of Bog’s phantom touches, and the look of his eyes as he pondered her—makes the crucifix sear her skin. When she thinks about how they spoke to each other, and all the secrets they’ve shared, and just how dearly she wants to know him, the silver marks her flesh like a brand.

But she _can’t_ feel that way. She told herself not to ever again.

Especially with Dawn’s _vampire_ at the very least.

Marianne clasps the chain around her neck, the cross sitting against her breastbone as she absentmindedly traces the buzzing spot where Bog’s lips had been. Catching herself, she hastily wipes her hands against her knees.

A few minutes ago she woke up with her sheets tangled about her ankles and a smile on her face, the morning sun peeking through the crack in her curtains like a nosy neighbour. Upon opening her eyes, her mind was swarmed with the images of the night before. Instantly, her entire body warmed up, and too giddy to bear it she jumped out of bed and splashed her face with cold water.

Now her entire head is dripping, but she does nothing about it as she nibbles on her lip.

Bog, as a vampire, should be cold as death, but last night… Last night he was…

“Damn it,” She sinks her teeth into her knuckle, preventing the itch of a smile.

Marianne remembers everything like it happened a second ago. She remembers Bog, drunk on her blood, tracing circles on her hip with his thumb. His whispers into her neck, his breath on her bare skin, sent shivers down her spin. Her own unfaithful hand on his chest, fingers travelling upward and disappearing behind his coat collar—

She stiffens. _This isn’t how it’s supposed to be_.

She remembers how Bog stood so hastily as he finished, too. Luckily, because she was _so_ close to turning her head and whispering his name into his ear, so close to bringing her lips to—

“God _damn_ it, Marianne!” Shooting to her feet, seeing for a brief second her flushed face in the mirror, she thinks, _Look at me. I’m such a mess_. Spinning away and pressing her fingers to her lips, she proceeds to count the seconds that pass by.

 _It just felt so different_.

“Damn you, Bog,” she curses. She expects pain like in the first feeding, like dying in some dragged out fashion. Instead she gets something so akin to pleasure it’s almost shameful. Marianne shuts her eyes. “Damn you, you blood-sucking villain.”

It’s a good thing he left so quickly, and in the manner he did. They need to draw a line in the sand—there can be no more of this funny business. And she _knows_ he’s getting distracted like she is, there’s no denying it from either of them. The way he smiled at her last night was not in a way he was supposed to. And the way he _touched_ her? And how she touched _him_? Inappropriate.

Definitely.

Shaking herself, Marianne looks back to the folded letter on her desk. By now she’s reread it over ten times, sure of the message, but not of the sender. Among the letters she received yesterday morning, this one wasn’t one of them. When she returned to her room later that day, this one sat among the rest like it belonged there, though it wasn’t there before. She didn’t immediately question it—having experienced many bizarre things—but the message itself sparks something within her.

For one, it’s unsigned both on the envelope, and the letter itself. It isn’t even addressed to her—Marianne’s name isn’t written anywhere on the parchment. Still, she knows it’s for her; there’s only three lines written on the letter, and it couldn’t be for anyone else:

_The deal with the beast runs deeper than you know, Huntress._

_You must know what you’ve gotten yourself into._

_I wait in the Greywyld. Come alone._

The Greywyld.

Situated in the north, it’s essentially a wildwood. No one dares to log it, for fear of a fairy’s curse, or approach it, for fear of getting lost in the thick shadows looming between the trees. Many things are said about it, like how the air itself is different from the air in Caelin Wood. They say that the air is sweeter, but in a way that’s uncomfortable and suffocating. That it smells oddly of primroses, though no one can ever identify the specific kind.

It’s fitting that this anonymous writer would call her there. Even Bog’s coven doesn’t reach as far as the Greywyld, even though Caelin Wood—which is separated from the Greywild by a valley—is where Marianne has to pass through to find Bog’s mansion.

Marianne grabs the envelope and turns it over it in her hands, considering the make of the paper and the wax seal. It’s not a symbol she recognizes, but someone must.

Dressing quickly, she brushes back her hair and holds her face under the water to cool her cheeks. Then, she grabs the strange letter and shoves it into its envelope as carefully as possible, replaying the words in her head like the verse to a song. Calculating how long it’ll take her to get to the Greywyld, she pushes all thoughts of Bog out of her mind. During the day, he’s none of her business.

Adjusting her collar to hide any lingering bruises, she steps out of her room, nearly crashing into her sister.

Dawn, still in the middle of recovering, starts at Marianne’s sudden appearance. Though she’s still sick, it doesn’t seem like she’s as she smiles at Marianne, bright as the sun. The shadows under her bright blue eyes are fading.

“Marianne!” Dawn exclaims, hand still raised to knock while her other arm is looped through Sunny’s. She’s hiding it, too, but she still needs him to keep her upright. Marianne can see her subtly catching her breath. “We were just about to take a turn about the gardens. Care to join us?”

Marianne bites her lip, thinking about the Greywyld, but she sighs into a smile. “It will be my greatest pleasure. Just give me one minute?” And she kisses Dawn’s forehead and sidesteps around her, patting Sunny on the shoulder as she leaves them without leaving room for protest. It takes her a few minutes to find who she’s looking for, but she catches him right as he’s about to leave.

“Father!”

Dagda jumps, bewildered as he turns to face her. His gloves are halfway on, and his hat shifts on his head at his surprise, threatening to slip as he regards her. “Oh, Marianne, good morning. How are you?”

“Much better—Dawn and I are about to take a morning stroll through the gardens.”

“I wish I could join you,” Dagda smiles. “I’m glad you’re both doing well.”

“So am I. Where are you off to?”

“An urgent meeting with the council. I expect it to be about finances, and other boring, but essential business. We might have an flu on our hands, but I’m none too sure. Did you need something?”

Marianne’s pleasant smile gives way to seriousness. She pulls out the letter, waving it between them so the wax is visible. “Do you recognize this seal?”

Dagda frowns, confused at the change of her mood. Nonetheless, he tilts his head and studies the odd sigil. “I don’t believe I do. Is the letter unsigned?”

“Yes. And it isn’t even addressed to me. I found it with my other letters last night,” she tilts it to the light spilling in from the open doorway, squinting at the wax seal. The wax itself is green, but the crest is one she doesn’t recognize. It doesn’t hold the initials of anyone she _could_ know, or a symbol of any organization that exists. Instead, pressed into the wax, are rows of odd stripes wrapped in ivy, split right down the middle so it looks halved. If Marianne was anyone else, she might’ve considered it to be fingers pressed together, or just an odd arrangement of columns. Maybe combs, if she saw this much earlier in her life. In the back of her mind though, deep where she knows the underworld like the back of her hand, she recognizes the rows to be the bones of a ribcage. The sigil is carrying something other than a symbol—it’s carrying the weight of something unearthly.

“Those aren’t English characters, are they?” Dagda’s brows furrow as he peers over her shoulder. “What did the letter say?”

Marianne resists the urge to pull it from her father’s gaze. “Well that’s the thing—it only reads, ‘To the Greywyld and back’. What do you think of it?”

He sputters, perplexed. “The Greywyld? Maybe it’s an invitation to a cult, or a challenge of some sort. Someone might be willing to test your courage there, Marianne.” Dagda checks his pocket watch, looking crestfallen. “Well I must be off. I wish I could stay longer, but the old men waiting for me aren’t getting any younger.” Then he reaches over and plants a kiss on her temple. “Tell me if you figure it out,” And he’s gone.

Marianne presses the letter to her lips, deep in thought. Perhaps she’ll go to the Greywyld tonight—this for certain isn’t some invitation to a cult, or a challenge. Not only did the letter appear suspiciously out of nowhere, it proves someone out there knows who she is, and what she’s done, despite her being careful.

And she can’t even imagine who it _could_ be. Even Sunny doesn’t know what she used to do was her _hunting_.

It bothers her for the next few hours, and the longer she thinks about it the more anxious she gets. If this stranger knows, who else does? Who knows to send a letter to her, to her home? What does that mean for her family?

“Marianne?”

“Hm?” She looks to her left, feeling the knot between her brows loosen. She suddenly remembers she’s in the garden with her sister and friend, Sunny, who now stares at her with concern in his eyes. She must look monstrous.

“Are you alright?”

She clears her throat, rubbing the tension from her face as she watches Dawn sit at the fountain, fingers trailing through the water. “I’m fine,” Marianne says.

“Is this about you-know-what?”

She raises her brows at him, but can’t help but nod. “Things have come up. You haven’t told her anything, have you?”

Sunny looks at Dawn, shaking his head. “I don’t know what I’d say. I don’t know enough about what you’re doing to be able to tell her anything.” Then he turns to Marianne again. “But I wouldn’t unless I was really worried you wouldn’t come home. Whatever you’re doing, I know it’s dangerous.”

She feels herself give a small smile. “You don’t have to worry too much. What I’m doing now isn’t as bad as what you caught me doing before.”

“But you’re still doing something.”

“And because of it she’ll be safe from whatever, and whoever, did this to her.”

“Some _one_ did this to her? Did you find him?”

Marianne nods, “He won’t hurt her anymore.”

“Did you—” his jaw tenses, “— _kill_ him?”

“No.” She acts bewildered, for his sake. “But I stopped him, and he won’t be doing it again. To anyone.” When she looks at Sunny, she can tell he’s thinking deeply on her words. She doesn’t know if he believes her. “One day I’ll tell you everything. I’ll tell her, too.”

“Good,” Sunny’s shoulders relax. “My curiousity is killing me, Marianne. Truly.”

“We made a promise didn’t we?” She jerks him with his elbow, thinking back to the night he caught her with her own bloody bandages. “I’ll protect her there, while you protect her here, and when there’s no more danger I’ll tell you why we must.”

He laughs a little. “I wish I knew what ‘there’ meant.”

A light voice interjects, “Are you talking about me? How rude!” Dawn yells from across the way, the noon sun a halo against her golden hair. Her laughter is bright, and something in Marianne aches at the sound. She suddenly feels so far away.

“No worries, Dawn!” Sunny laughs. “All good things.”

Dawn shakes her head, grinning, “Of course! What else could you possibly say about me? I dare you to think of something horrible—it’s impossible I tell you.”

“I beg to differ,” Marianne teases. “Who was it again that actually mourned my engagement in black dress?”

“Oh,” Dawn winces, “Fair point.” Then she gestures Marianne over, adjusting her seat on the fountain’s edge. When Marianne joins her, Dawn’s smile saddens, and they sit in a silence so tense that Marianne regrets bringing it up. They joked about the cancelled engagement long before, many months ago, even though it hurt Marianne then. Now she doesn’t care much for it. Still, it’s an old wound for everyone.

The next thing her sister says startles her. “I’ve been terrible to you, Marianne. I’m sorry it took my being ill to realize it. I’ve failed you as a sister.”

There’s a pang in Marianne’s chest, and suddenly she can’t bring herself to respond. She’s stunned. Luckily, Dawn keeps talking.

“Anemic and completely delirious, I was haunted by nightmares that were only broken by your voice, _your_ hand. I was beyond myself those nights, feeling things that I can’t even explain to you. There was something I was longing for, nearly _thirsting_ for, and though I can’t even name it for the life of me now, through that dark haze you were always there, something I knew for certain was real. You were my constant. You were there for me when I needed someone most.” She looks down, whispering “But I wasn’t there for you, was I.”

Dawn takes Marianne’s hands in her shaking fingers, blue eyes wet. “I can’t imagine what it was like after the engagement. Maybe I could’ve grasped some sense of it if I’d listened to you—but I didn’t. And I was a fool not to. I’m sorry for everything, Marianne. Roland never deserved you, and he never will. You are far more without him, and always will be. And I’m glad that you’re not married to him, thank God.”

Marianne blinks, feeling something prickling at the corners of her eyes. She shuts them, relief shuddering through her. Something inside her shifts, and everything else she could’ve said in response fades from her mind. With Dawn in front of her, saying all she ever needed to hear, now all Marianne can say—now that someone is listening—is, “God, I’m so happy he’s out of my life.”

She feels arms pull her into a gentle hug, and Marianne resists squeezing her frail sister any tighter. A knot inside her chest seems to unravel.

“I’m glad, too.” Dawn whispers, and Marianne can hear the smile in it. When they finally pull apart, they’re both grinning sheepishly. “I bet there’s no one new in your life?”

Marianne shakes her head. “No, and not for a while. There’s other things I have to do.”

Dawn combs her hair behind her ear. “Know that I will always be by your side. And I’ll talk some sense into father—he’ll eventually get over your singularity. He knows just as I do there’s no man or woman in Fayford deserving of you yet.”

“Good luck with that,” Marianne laughs.

“Though the matter of your romantic life is quite settled for the moment, I do share his worry.”

Marianne raises a brow.

“Find a friend, would you?” Dawn pushes her softly. “After the whole Roland debacle I know you haven’t been receiving many invitations—though that blonde rag attends all the day, and night outings. It’d be nice for you to get out once in a while and not worry about me. I’m a recovering patient, not a dying victim. Find some worthy individual who’s as sick of Roland as we are, or who’s as indifferent to him as we all must be, and befriend them. It’d be nice to see you have fun.”

An image of unearthly gold eyes flashes before Marianne’s thoughts, and she can’t hold back a small blush. “I think I might have at least one friend.”

Dawn giggles. “Good. I don’t want to be worried sick about you.”

“You know I can take care of myself.”

“Well, you can’t exactly stop me, can you? I’ll worry about you all I like.” She sticks out her tongue, then turns to Sunny who’s standing a far enough distance away as to not eavesdrop. He’s distracting himself with some flowers, humming to himself. “Sunny, help me up.”

Marianne sticks out her arm, “I can do tha—“ Dawn swats at her. Yelping, she nurses her stinging shoulder, grumbling to herself.

Sunny approaches with a sheepish smile, hand on the back of his neck as he offers his elbow. “I wasn’t listening in, swear it.”

Dawn smiles, “I know you wouldn’t dare.” Then she takes his arm and shakily gets to her feet. Exhaling deeply, she smiles once again at Marianne. “Now, I’m off to bed. As the sickly, I order you go find this friend of yours and maintain your relationship—don’t let it fade. I don’t want to see you holing yourself up in your room, or father’s study either. You can do that dull stuff tomorrow.”

Marianne laughs, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders, “I plan on going out anyway. Tell father I may be home late?”

“How late?”

“Probably later than you’ve ever been.”

Dawn raises a brow, but her curiousity wiggles a small grin onto her face. “Alright then, I’ll tell him. You better come home at least before dawn.”

Marianne smiles. “I always do.”

* * *

 

Not really knowing what she’ll need for the Greywyld, Marianne just packs a warm coat and some food. Of course she’ll be fully equipped with weaponry—she won’t be hunting, but at least she’ll be able to protect herself if she ever comes across anything particularly sinister. She’s not going to go back on her deal with Bog that fast; she’s a woman of her word (unless it’s regarding engagements with blonde bastards with venomous green eyes).

Plus, she hasn’t told Dawn the whole truth. Perhaps there’s some kind of companionship between her and Bog, but it isn’t him she’s going to see tonight (plus she’s going to make an extra effort _not_ to see him at all). It’s this mysterious sender she seeks, despite the suspicious nature of how she received their invitation in the first place. To be clear, she doesn’t trust them—she doesn’t know who they are, and can’t even make a guess at who they might be—but she’s curious about what they have to tell her about her deal with Bog. If this deal runs deeper than a simple handshake, then she must know how far.

So Marianne leaves in the late afternoon, satchel over her shoulder and coat stuffed inside. Wrapped in paper is a small loaf of bread, some sliced cheese, and a couple of dried meats. A little bit medieval, but she’s not going to bring an elaborate meal to the Greywyld in a picnic basket. She’ll be there, and gone; she doesn’t intend to stay long.

Walking through the streets of Fayford in riding clothes, she’s easily ignored. The wildfire that is the Roland scandal faded to embers a long time ago, but that doesn’t mean things returned to how they were before. She still gets the odd look from the neighbours, but they greet her politely regardless—she’s the mayor’s eldest daughter, what choice do they have? And Marianne returns their waves and smiles, but makes her walk brisk enough to show that she doesn’t intend to chat. There’s relief from both parties when she passes them by without a second glance.

Later, when her calves burn, she realizes she could’ve taken a carriage to the city stables—that way she could’ve minimized socialization—but it’s been a while since she’s walked anywhere by herself in broad daylight. It gives her time to think while her muscles burn comfortably while the sun overhead warms her shoulders.

When she finally arrives at the stables, she’s thought about how to tell Bog that his feeding is all that should transpire between them, though the words aren’t sounding quite right in her head yet. And she’s thought about the stranger she’s going to meet, and why she’s actually going to meet them alone, despite the fact she’s sure it might be a trap. She doesn’t know why she’s so eager to meet them, but she is.

Who they are is beyond her ability to guess, but _what_ they are intrigues her more. Someone who knows she’s a huntress, and not questioning what kind, is aware that she’s hunting creatures from the underworld. Someone who’s wax seal gives off a faint aura of something otherworldly. Perhaps they’re one of these supernatural creatures, or another hunter she’s never crossed paths with. She wants to know why they’re contacting her now, after what’s been a couple months. She wonders if they’re stronger than anything she’s faced so far.

And it thrills her.

Stopping by the gate of the ranch, Marianne realizes she’s probably going to be walking into a trap, but right now Marianne doesn’t care. To be honest, she’s eager to meet this mystery writer. She wants to know what they have to say. By now it’s guaranteed to be interesting.

She pays for a fast horse named Neptune—doesn’t dare endeavor to use her own stallion, Artemis, for fear of someone noting her absence—and promises to return him the next morning. The caretaker raises a brow at this, but doesn’t question her after feeling the weight of the purse she hands him, even after she says she’ll be taking the horse to the woods.

“Just return ‘im.”

“Do you doubt I will?”

“Not really,” he yawns.

Marianne pauses for a minute to consider this man. She doesn’t know him, doesn’t recognize his features from around town. He’s maybe a couple years older than her, but he looks much older with the dark circles hugging his eyes, and the gauntness of his cheeks. Perhaps he’s a new hire, but she hasn’t been frequent enough at the stables to know for sure. Deliberating whether or not she can trust him, she decides it doesn’t really matter. He doesn’t seem to know who she is.

“What’s your name?” She asks, scrunching her nose up a little at the smell of the ranch. It’s been far too long.

“Eldrick is fine,” he lazily returns her curiousity. “And you?”

“Ophelia.” Discreetly, she glances about them; there’s no one around. “Can you keep a secret, Eldrick?”

His interest is piqued at her hushed voice. “Certainly. Depends on what it is.”

Marianne smiles. “You never saw me here,” and she pays him a little extra, sliding the money over the counter. Though he clearly doesn’t know who she is, no one needs to know that she’s riding into the woods before sundown. She’s already given him a false name, but she can’t have him describing her to anyone who might know her. To Dawn she’s out with a friend—her story can’t have more sides to it than that. Hopefully money can keep his lips sealed.

Eldrick is clearly pleased, and so he nods slowly to her, careful not to touch her as he pulls her bribe into his pocket. “Never saw you.”

Mounting her horse, she guesses the sun is an hour or two from setting. It’ll take her a couple hours just to reach the edge of the Greywyld, more if she gets lost. The real issue she now realizes is navigating the woods by herself—there’s no map to help her when she gets there, despite turning her father’s library and study upside down. There just isn’t a map of what’s past the Greywyld’s edge.

Sure, there’s the mountains past it, and the sea to the east of it, but the treeline border is all anyone knows. Somehow the entirety of the Greywyld forest has gone uncharted after all these years. At least Marianne’s memorized the direction towards the forest, but only now is she getting the odd inkling that she isn’t fully prepared for this.

But there’s no going back now. She doesn’t even want to.

Nodding to Eldrick, she sets off. Not used to this new stallion, it takes her a few minutes to adjust, but eventually they’re off at a brisk trot and a mutual understanding. Wind beats at Marianne’s face as she rides, the insides of her thighs feeling the shift of Neptune as he carries her north. She’s never felt freer in a long time. Clearing the ranch, and crossing the field to Caelin Wood, she watches the sun slowly crawl down towards Fayford over her shoulder. To pass the time she sings quietly to herself, and thinks a little more on Bog, now when she’s sure no one can hear her think.

She’d be a fool to deny it—she’s very much attracted to him. It’s an unexplainable phenomenon to her, and the more she considers it, the more she’s confused. Their first meeting was horrible, and the deal she struck was grotesque. Blood for safety? Who knew how literal that could get.

But the night he showed her how to fly changed everything between them. He shouldn’t have done anything—he should’ve left her to wallow in self-pity in that church until she felt the need to go home. Instead he showed her everything there was to love about Bleakley, and the side of him that wasn’t monstrous. A side of him she enjoyed meeting.

And in telling him that he’s not hideous, she must’ve been mad. She knows she should regret telling him, but she doesn’t. She knows it’s the truth, at least to her. That night was just so abundant with honesty it felt wrong not say anything, wrong not to tell him that what he blames for being loveless just isn’t true.

He isn’t hideous, and he can be loved.

She hopes one day someone will prove it to him.

Soon the sky blends into soft purples, then to navy, freckled in rivers of stars. As Neptune nickers beneath her, Marianne watches the moon through the tops of the trees in Caelin Wood. Slices of moonbeams litter through the forest, the air smelling of earth and moss. A soft breeze tousles her hair, a whistle piercing the silence. Marianne listens to the silence.

Nothing but what she’d expect to hear. Crickets and wind, the shuffling of leaves. There’s the occasional fox, or deer, but none approach. They watch as she passes, intrigued.

She doesn’t even notice when she’s standing at the edge of the valley that separates her from the Greywyld. When Neptune bucks under her, she snaps out of her daze, staring in awe at the forest across the way.

It’s massive, the pine trees looming and tall, casting deep, seamless shadows upon the earth and between its trunks. Staring at it now, she realizes there’s not a sound in the air except for her own breathing and Neptune’s snorts. The world’s gone quiet, save for an odd, loud hum in the back of Marianne’s mind. The air smells unbearably sweet.

Neptune shifts his weight, nervous, ears pricked forward as he begins to back up. Marianne rubs her palm down his neck, making soft cooing noises to calm him, but Neptune begins to buck, his tail clamped down.

“Shh, Neptune,” she says, dismounting, trying hard to soothe the horse. He doesn’t seem to listen, and when she tries to tug him towards the Greywyld, he resists.

Marianne looks at the distant wood, studying it. Not a sound comes from it, and nothing shifts within it. Dead silent and dark, the Greywyld watches her from where its roots dig deep into the earth, farther down than she can imagine. Her muscles go taut, senses on high alert.

_We’ve lived next to this for so long. How?_

The feeling she gets from looking at the Greywyld leaves a horrible weight in her stomach. If this isn’t a trap, it sure as Hell is an awful idea.

She strokes Neptune’s face, urging him to look at her. “You know the way home?” She asks. He whinnies softly, and she smiles. “Alright, go on then.” And she pats his rear, sending him off. Neptune neighs and trots forward, nudging at her hand before turning around and walking back through the comfort of the Caelin Wood, leaving her alone with the vast space between her and the Greywyld.

Shivering, she turns to face it. It seems to grow taller with each passing second, the smell in the air becoming so sweet, it’s bitter. Now she knows why there’s no map for it—how could anyone enter it?

Still, she makes her way over, ignoring the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Unknowingly, she places a hand on her side, where her father’s revolver sits holstered. Swallowing nervously, she watches as the trees begin to tower over her, massive giants standing vigil at the wall of some great kingdom.

Now she stands right at the edge, staring in. The shadows are thick, and almost black a few feet from her. It’s like peering into a cave, where eyes may stare back. There’s only really one way to know.

Taking one step in, she feels like she’s walking through sludge. Like forcing her body through a wall. She winces as she plants both feet on overgrown turf. Now, she can’t even hear her own breathing. Swallowing, she gathers herself as she eyes her surroundings, distrusting even her own vision as she waits for it to adjust to the light—or in this case, the lack thereof.

It’s nearly pitch black. There’s not many words to describe it. It’s a gaping darkness, gulping light like a drunk in the corner of some pub. The floor seems like the sky, only pinpricks of light scattered across the floor, like stars circling tree trunks. Her eyes begin to sting as she squints, and when she realizes her vision isn’t going to get any clearer, she takes another step in.

For a moment there’s doubt, and she looks over her shoulder to Caelin Wood. It seems so far now, too far to run back to. Turning back to the darkness of the Greywyld, Marianne uses the trees to guide her, the bark rough against her palms. Now she wishes she brought a lantern of some sort, or even some torch. She packed matches just in case, but in this darkness it feels as if lighting one would make her a beacon, a target that the shadows can chase.

And she doesn’t know what awaits her in these shadows, begging to be seen.

How will she find the anonymous sender in this darkness, if she can barely see her own feet? And it’s so quiet, like the forest’s holding its breath, unaware that she’s trespassing. Staring into the black spaces between the trees, Marianne realizes that this was a mistake. Turning, she makes to go back to Fayford, even though now she has to do it by foot.

_Snap!_

Marianne blanches and her gaze falls to her traitorous foot. A twig. She hisses a curse, and the sound seems to echo around her, making her jump. Slapping her hand over her mouth, she listens to her surroundings for something that could’ve heard her. Sweat beads on her temple, and she can feel it dripping from her chin. It’s suddenly so hot.

Now she hears something, but it doesn’t comfort her. She strains to hear the sound, the source, but it’s around her and nowhere all at once. Someone, or even an entire crowd, is whispering, muttering to themselves phrases she can’t pick up. The words are unintelligible, coming in endless streams. They blur together, like the sound of someone yelling in a storm.

A shiver dances down her back as she hears, suddenly, the word, “Huntress.” The voices erupt in a chorus at the word, a cacophony of noise. Though they’re louder now, much closer, she still can’t understand what they’re saying.

Steeling herself, she pulls out her revolver and backs herself against a tree, senses sharpening. Marianne grinds her teeth, her heartbeat pounding in her ears as she steadies her hands, listening to the blurring voices edge closer to her. She can’t hear footsteps, or see the moonlight stars on the floor disturbed, but she knows they’re coming. Their approach grows more excited when they close the distance. Around her there’s nothing to see but tree trunks, but she knows for sure she’s outnumbered. Whatever they are, she might be able to take out two or three, if she’s lucky, but there’s no surviving this.

She shouldn’t have come here. What could she do, alone? She should’ve brought someone, anyone. She should’ve knocked Eldrick out and dragged him along, just for company.

A dangerous thought whispers into her mind, and she doesn’t even recognize the voice.

 _The Greywyld will consume you_.

And the voices are right over her shoulder, asking for her name, calling her _Huntress_. Suddenly the tree behind her vanishes and she’s stumbling, losing her balance and collapsing onto her back. Her grip on the revolver falters, losing the gun in the dark as she stares upward from the ground, trapped. The air above her, though almost black, is distorted. Things are taking up space, circling around and staring down at her, regarding her like a beast they don’t have a name for. They tilt their heads, and one of them reaches a hand towards her, impatient.

Marianne shields herself with her arms, shutting her eyes as a wash of cold passes over her body. _Not like this,_ she thinks, begging. _Not like—_

“No.” Someone says, and the cold is gone, just like that. Warmth pours back into Marianne’s bones, which stop rattling, and something pierces her eyelids.

Light.

Her eyes shoot open, and immediately she looks around her. The Greywyld, though earlier a dense void, now looks as normal as Caelin Wood. Moonlight breaks through the trees, and the sound of wind whistles past her ear, providing her with so much relief she actually laughs. It takes her a while to realize she’s no longer alone.

Standing before her is a small, stout woman with grey skin, and although she seems ancient, she gives off an air of agelessness, another paradox from a world not Marianne’s own. The stranger’s hair is a wild copper, and her eyes like black beads peer at her kindly. Her wide mouth, which is stern for a moment, widens into a smile. Atop her head, peeking out from her hair, are two severed horns, white like bone, almost obscured by her crown of pearly thorns.

“Huntress,” she welcomes in her gravelly voice. “Welcome to the Greywyld. If I knew you were coming so soon I would’ve made sure the wood knew I was anticipating a guest.”

Marianne blinks at her, hesitating to take her hand. She stutters, “W—who are you?”

The woman smiles, a beacon of warmth. “Griselda, dear. Bone witch and keeper of the Greywyld. It’s nice to finally meet you.“

 

 

 

           

           

             

 

           

             

                       

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The school semester is over!! I'll have more time to work on this *wipes sweat* sorry for the wait xD the last time I updated was months ago. I don't mean to make you guys wait this long I swear.


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